


wiederherstellung/recovery

by q_19



Category: Homeland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-06
Updated: 2017-01-15
Packaged: 2018-09-06 23:23:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 30,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8773534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/q_19/pseuds/q_19
Summary: from landstuhl to new york, in-betweens for s5/s6.





	1. Chapter 1

one

At first everything is too bright, too loud. Sensory overload, followed by debilitating headaches, extreme nausea. 

They give him pills for that, along with every other thing. But still Quinn’s agitated all the time, out on an emotional ledge. 

He manages not to lash out at the nurses after a few early episodes that leave him feeling raw and ragged, ashamed of his lack of self-restraint. Does it by taking himself away, falling inward. Inhaling the constant pain, uncontrollable anger.

He relives it all the time, somehow retains every moment of what happened but can’t remember how to move his own fucking fingers, what he refused to eat for breakfast that morning. The suffocating feeling, the hyper-awareness. He knows it’s PTSD. But it doesn’t make it any less real, any easier. 

At least he can hold it back from time to time. Bite down hard on it until the nurses leave and he’s gloriously alone. Alone to cower in a ball, sobbing inexplicable tears. He hasn’t cried since he was six years old, learned early on that weakness invites pain. Foster homes will do that to you, elder ‘brothers’, foster ‘parents’ that taught you to hide any soft spots. 

After Syria he had no soft spots left, hardened through years of self-denial, general misanthropy. Even then he couldn’t see the point of his own existence, was just biding time, waiting for the inevitable end. 

And now. There hasn’t been a moment since he woke that he hasn’t regretted surviving. Possibly no miracle recipient has ever been less thankful than him, stuck in this broken body, unable to think, control his emotions. 

The nurse is in now, cheerily telling him about the three different therapists that are coming to see him today. While Quinn is stuck in his own head, the nightmare that woke him still gripping his chest in a vise. 

He’s told them all he doesn’t remember, that he doesn’t know what happens in the constant nightmares, the obvious flashbacks. Because he can’t face the truth of it, how fucking vulnerable he’s become, how terrified he is of his weakness. 

So the nurse goes around, checks all his vitals. And he even manages a nod, a wan smile. Tells himself to just hold on until she leaves, that he can fall apart again then. 

But just as the nurse opens his door, he hears a familiar click click of shoes, groans inwardly. There’s still enough of him left that he can tell most of his visitors from their soles, their gait. And this one he’s known for years. 

He hears her exchange medical small talk with the nurse as they pass by each other at his door. Vitals, therapy, dosage. It’s all part of what he hates. Being taken care of, all his deficits constantly discussed, feeling so fucking exposed. 

Quinn feels it build in him, the explosiveness that is always right there. It’s the reminder of his vulnerability, the fact that she’s still here. And it mixes with the remnants of his nightmare, the terror in his chest, to form a fireball of anger. 

It’s perfect timing really. Because once he stopped losing it on the nurses there was only one other target for his detonations. And she’s always been his trigger point, has always left him on an emotional edge. 

Nowadays it’s because she’s here at all, ages after she should have gone back home, back to her daughter. There’s nothing she can do for him here and he’s in no place to deal with her, what’s left of his past. So he keeps making shit up, grunting stupid therapist-crap like ‘I have to focus on myself right now’, or just plain ignoring her when she’s there. 

Thinking about her being there, sacrificing hours of time she should be spending with her kid. To watch him decompose in front of her, struggle just to stand up on his own. 

It’s humiliating on every level, the look of concern she constantly wears. Her worry for his frailness, the emotion he feels in her touch. 

So he shies away from her, spurns her hands. Thinks she will finally tire of this eventually, trying to communicate with a shut down invalid who occasionally unleashes hellfire on you, a barrage of verbal missiles, any moveable objects.

But it’s been a few weeks now, and he was out for at least that long too. And yet she hasn’t given up, clings on stubbornly in that exasperating way she has. 

She comes in today wearing a half smile. He knows from experience it’s her ‘happy to see him’ look, and it automatically triggers a familiar wave of guilt, self-hatred.

This shouldn’t be her happiness, the fact that he’s still here, wasting space and medical resources on a life he doesn’t want. His entire life had been about extreme competence. And now he can’t fucking feed himself, get out of bed on his own. 

He had always defined himself by his ability, making a difference. And then he realized he had never been the good guy, that death only begets death. That there was no point to what he did, only a more fucked up world at every turn. 

Which is what led him to his rash action, the chance to chase death in Syria yet again. The recklessness of depression, the loss of hope in himself. 

She’s still standing there. And he can feel her half-smiling at him even though he’s huddled in his bed, looking away, pretending to sleep. 

“Hey,” Carrie says. “I know you’re awake.” 

Quinn wonders if it’s from the obvious tenseness in his body, or his barely controlled breathing. Probably both. She’s a spy after all, and she knows him too well. 

She approaches him quietly, puts her hand on his back. 

It’s like an emotional burn. He can feel all her relief, happiness radiate through her touch. And instantly he can’t handle it, reaches back and smacks her hand away with his. 

“Don’t,” he growls, barely able to contain his roiling agitation. He does not want her to be happy he’s here, does not want to be obligated to her in any way. If she would just fucking set him free he could leave this all behind so easily. There are a million ways, even with his limited mobility. But she comes here every fucking day, barely leaves. And as much as he wants it, he knows he can’t hurt her like that. She’s suffered so much already. 

Yet he’s still able to spurn all her attempts at comfort, yell at her almost daily. Like right now, trying to shield himself from everything - the suffocating feeling of being watched, the frustration of being unable to do anything for himself, the fear that it will be like this forever, that he will never feel safe again. 

Carrie takes her hand away, doesn’t say anything else. Which just makes him feel all the worse. He wants her to lose it at him, invites being screamed at. It’s great for the self-hatred, sinks his self-esteem from zero to negative a hundred. 

He hears her sit down, knows she’s here to stay. That she won’t leave even if he ‘sleeps’ all day. 

But until she leaves he can’t resolve all the shit he’s been holding onto since waking. The leftover emotions of the usual gas chamber nightmare, the anxiety of living with no point, with an end goal of walking, being able to feed himself. 

Quinn feels the fury build in his guts, knows there’s nothing to hold it back now. Grits his teeth as it hits his chest and he pushes himself up, finally turns to look at her. 

It’s so easy to hate her these days it almost scares him. Except he knows he’s been cultivating it, growing it as ammunition. 

He hates her for caring about him when he doesn’t deserve it, is just a useless waste. He hates her for tending to his every need, making sure he’s a fucking pampered invalid prince. He hates her for trying to show him love in her every action, for that teary smile she gets when she thinks he’s not watching. 

“I’m sorry,” she says, almost automatically. 

It’s like she’s a fucking Canadian, apologizing to him for everything since he woke up. As if it wasn’t all his own fucking fault, as if she had any responsibility to him after he left for Syria in the first place. 

“You know I fucking hate that,” he snaps at her, eyes full of venom. 

Carrie nods, he can see her swallow back another apology. 

“It just comes out sometimes,” she says, obviously trying to pick her words delicately, avoid any of his million triggers. “You know it’s how I feel.” 

But it doesn’t matter what she says, how carefully she words it. 

“Well fuck Carrie. Maybe I don’t care how you fucking feel. Maybe I have enough fucking things to deal with without feeling fucking guilty all the time,” he yells in her face. 

Carrie raises her eyebrows at his outburst, is probably expecting it by now. Stands up and approaches him but doesn’t say anything. She’s clearly learned from experience that anything she says now will just make him angrier. And yet her restraint in responding only pisses him off more, catalyzes the explosion. 

“Don’t fucking touch me!” he hollers in her face as she reaches for his hand. Slaps her hand away, harder than either of them expect. Enough for Carrie to wring her hand in pain, enough to make him feel even shittier as a human. 

It’s impossible how much he wants to hurt her, vicariously hurt himself. An endless cycle of self hate, incrimination. He hates himself for doing it, can’t resist how horrible it makes him feel. He wants to suffer, knows he absolutely should. 

So he doesn’t stop there, reaches up and pushes her away with both hands. Physical therapy has made him stronger, and she was a bit off balance already so Carrie stumbles back, clips her head on a metal tray as she falls. 

Quinn stares, his innards scrambling in turmoil. Absolute panic that he hurt her, that she will think he meant it. That this could be what finally makes her leave, how liberating and terrifying it would be if she did. 

And then there’s the familiar self-hatred. Telling him that she fucking asked it, that he’s been telling her to leave him alone. That caring about him can only lead to disastrous results, that she has had to learn it somehow. 

Her eyes close for a minute as she hits the floor and he is seized with worry. He can’t of hurt her that badly, he tells himself. She’s going to be fine. 

And yet when she opens her eyes a half moment later he finds himself still shouting at her, getting angrier by the minute. 

“See, I told you to leave me alone, Carrie,” he unleashes. “You never fucking listen. Just go, you don’t have anything I want, anything I need. You never did. You’re just trying to make up for being a fucking heartless coward. So stop pretending you care because we both know you can’t. Just fucking leave.” 

Carrie looks up at him from the floor, obviously stunned. It’s the harshest thing he’s ever said to her, all of it blatantly untrue. 

But he can tell he scores direct hits with each accusation, that these are the things she’s been thinking to herself all along. After all the hurt, horror. He still knows her so well. 

And it stings to say each word. But he’s fueled with rage, thinks at least he’s using it to both their benefits. She will get over this, get over her guilt. She’ll go back to her daughter, her life. Leave him behind finally, forget about him in time. 

Carrie gets up slowly, he can see her own wall crumbling. The one she’s built to not cry in his presence, to stop the flood of apologies. All because she knows he hates it, doesn’t want to see how much she fucking cares. It’s just one of a hundred things she does for him daily, all the while getting cursed at and hated on by him. 

He sees her chin tremble, watches as she tries to hold her emotions back. And for just an instant he wants to be whole again, to step to her and hold her close. Tell her he’s fucking sorry, that he didn’t mean any of it. 

But he can’t, either physically or emotionally. Is surprised he even felt it, he’s built his walls so tall.

And this is probably his best chance. He’s gone further than ever before. If this doesn’t finally push her away, he’s got little left. 

For once it’s hard to read Carrie’s expression, know what’s going on inside her head. She considers him for a long moment, looks at him with undefined emotion. 

Then she seems to come to a decision, exhales loudly. 

“If that’s what you want,” she says with a resigned nod, a sad tone. 

It is and it isn’t. But it is what he wants for her. At least that’s what he keeps telling himself, willing it to be true. 

So Quinn doesn’t disagree, turns away and averts his eyes. Shuts them hard against his reality, holds everything down until he hears her leave the room. 

And only then does he let go, lets the wall come crashing down. He’s finally pushed her too far after all this time. He thought it would make him feel free, unencumbered.

But all he feels is fucking terrified, completely alone. Wants to just curl up, sob away his fears. Somehow allow himself to feel safe, be comforted. 

Yet just thinking it makes him fall deeper into the hole. As if he deserves anything after everything he fucked up, all the bad choices. If anything, he deserves exactly this, to be alone, suffering in every way. 

And so the spiral goes on, darker, more hurtful with each circle. Until he’s huddled in mental agony, wishing it would all just end.


	2. ch1part2

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Quinn screams at her as she reaches for his hand. He slaps it away, harder than she expects. And as she shakes the pain out of it, Carrie thinks ‘this is progress, that fucking hurt.’

She’s inordinately proud of him these days, everything he silently endures. No complaints about the constant prodding, parade of therapists. Though of course he doesn’t say jackshit to any of them, just plays along quietly. 

But she’s careful not to show it, express anything. He’s very clearly told her he hates it, can’t stand being touched. Doesn’t want to hear any praise, sentiments of caring. Just wants to hide away in his bed, curled up against the world. 

Carrie’s still thinking these idle thoughts, how much strength he’s gained despite everything, when he reaches out, pushes her hard with both hands. A bit off balance to begin with, Carrie stumbles back, feels her head hit the sharp edge of a metal tray as she falls.

She closes her eyes upon landing, just for a second. Feels the impact of the fall through her tailbone straight up to her head. Then takes a breath, assesses for damage. Finds that she is fine, just a little shaken. 

Carrie opens her eyes, sees Quinn staring at her with total panic in his eyes. She can almost see the thoughts passing through his mind, that he hurt her, that she thinks he meant it. And then she sees him tense, the harshness of hate coming over him. 

“See, I told you to fucking leave me alone, Carrie,” he hurls at her. “You never fucking listen. Just go, you don’t have anything I want, anything I need. You never did. You’re just trying to make up for being a fucking heartless coward. So stop pretending you care because we both know you can’t. Just fucking leave.” 

Carrie looks up at him from the floor, stunned. It’s the harshest thing he’s ever said to her, the dirty truth. It’s what she’s been trying to atone for, never valuing him like she should have. 

But there’s one thing he gets wrong. She isn’t pretending to care, only here to relieve her own guilt. This time there is nothing that will make her quit on him, because it’s what he needs. Even if he doesn’t want it. Even if he hates her as much as he purports to. 

He has every right to be angry with her, she’s willing to take everything he’s got. Still, it’s hard to hear the words come from him, think that he may really mean them.

Carrie gets up slowly, feels her emotional wall breaking. The one she’s built to not cry in his presence, to stop the flood of apologies that he hates. 

She feels her chin tremble, tries to hold it back. And for a moment she feels something in him soften, maybe a hint of regret. But then he steels himself again, glares at her with obvious venom. 

Carrie looks at him for a long time, thinks about how hard he struggles, how much he fucking hates this all. Being taken care of, being alive at all. It doesn’t take a psych degree to see that he had only his job, his abilities. That he’d already left hope for anything else behind. 

And now he’s lost all independence, is clearly terrified, yet can’t admit to it. It hurts so much to see him suffer, watch him reject any comfort. Because he thinks he deserves all this, that he fucked up, should have died. That there’s nothing left for him, that she’s only here out of guilt, pity. 

But she just loves him all the more for how hard he tries to keep her at a distance, to protect her in his own way. She just wants him to eventually figure out it’s not necessary, that she isn’t going to leave him. No matter how hard he pushes. 

And she also holds on the barest of hopes that he would miss her, that he doesn’t actually want her to go. 

So maybe this is the time, she thinks. To “leave”. Push him a little. 

Decision made, Carrie sighs. Looks at him sadly.

“If that’s what you want,” she says with a resigned nod. 

Quinn doesn’t disagree, turns away and averts his eyes. She wonders if he’s relieved, if he really believes her.  
But she knows she won’t get any more out of him now, that it’s time to give him some space. So she gets up, silently leaves his room. 

*

Carrie arrives the next morning at the usual time after having skipped her regular evening visit the previous night. It had been nice to spend some extra time out of the hospital; she walked along the river, skyped with Frannie and Maggie. It was good to step back for a moment, give Quinn the space he keeps demanding. 

But then she couldn’t sleep, spent all night wondering. If he really thought she’d left, that he’d gone too far. If he really was glad she was gone, if he’s going to be angry seeing her this morning.

Because she does worry. That she’s reading him wrong, that he’s not pushing her away due to self-sacrifice, because he thinks she shouldn’t care. He’s so insular in his hurt, like an injured animal, recoiling from all touch. Which just makes her care all the more, double down on staying with him for as long as he needs her. 

But what if he really doesn’t need her? That’s the part that Carrie stews over. That she’s reading things in him for her own benefit, that he actually means the hurtful things he throws at her daily. 

So she’s nervous this morning, in a way she hasn’t been in a long time. Enters his room quietly, sees that he’s awake but with his back to the door 

Carrie sits down, doesn’t break the tense silence. She doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t want to find out how angry he is she didn’t leave. 

He’s quiet for so long she becomes unsure that he’s awake. Yet he never sleeps during the day, stubbornly refuses to ever since she woke him from a nightmare weeks ago. Now he hides his secret away in the dark, suffers through his sleepless nights alone. 

He’s silent for a long time, nearly ten minutes. Carrie forces herself to be patient, wait until he’s ready. It’s against her nature but she’s learning, able to do it for Quinn. 

“I thought you left,” he finally says, barely audible in a low raspy voice. 

Carrie can’t read the emotion in the statement, whether he’s disappointed or not. So she treads carefully. Because this really could be it. She spent the previous night telling herself to listen to him, to accept it if he really wants her to go. But she has to be sure it’s the truth, not just his anger, his protective streak.

“Do you still want me to?” she asks carefully, tone as neutral as she can make it. 

Again he’s silent for a long time. She can feel how tense he is, panic always so close. 

“No,” he mutters, barely audible. 

She’s glad he’s not looking at her now, can’t help but beam at him stupidly. Carrie doesn’t smile often these days - when she’s on with Frannie, a few times when Quinn’s not looking. 

She knows what it costs him to be honest with her, how hard it is for him to admit this. So she can’t contain the smile, at his courage, at his fight. It is very much still him. Hard and fierce, on edge. Just sharper than before, more brittle. 

“I know how much you wanted to say yes,” she says with a sigh. “Why do you do this to yourself?”

It takes another long time, like conversing through a time delay. But it’s been weeks since she’s managed to say this many words back and forth with him without an explosion. Far more than she expected and she doesn’t want to fuck it up. 

So she waits, is surprised to see Quinn turn to face her. His eyes are murky, full of anger, frustration, desperation. He’s clearly working out what to say, if he can say it. 

Carrie breathes calmly, tries to pass it on to him. Tells him silently that it’s alright, that he can do this. 

“I can’t deal with being me,” he says, clearly fighting to get each word out. 

Carrie nods, has known this feeling herself so many times. That frustration of being stuck in a situation out of her control, her mind failing her. Hating everything, hating herself most of all. But she always had the drive to go on, had purpose, hope. Fight. 

And it’s the same with Quinn. He isn’t one to give up, even stuck in his weakened body, unable to control his emotions. He hasn’t even admitted how fucking hard it is to anyone, just shuts it all out. Does that superficial spy thing, sassy little quips that make the nurses swoon, just enough to back off the therapists. Pretends he isn’t planning ways to end it all, as soon as he’s able. 

She sees through all of it, to the core of him. Always the lone soldier, in his own silent struggle. He had given her one chance to pull him away from it. And she’d fucked it up like always, by being scared of fucking things up. 

“You’re not going to always feel this way,” she replies. 

He obviously doesn’t believe her, gives her the silent yeah right. And yet his temper doesn’t flare, he even keeps looking at her. 

“And you don’t have to do it alone,” Carrie continues cautiously. This is dangerous territory, any suggestion that he needs anyone, her particularly. 

But again he doesn’t explode, just frowns at her in that familiar way. 

“Like you ever accepted any help,” he says. 

And this time Carrie can’t hold it back, smiles at him directly. Laughs even, nods her agreement. 

It’s still him alright, she thinks. She’s missed this a lot. 

“Point for you,” she says. “But now I can see I needed it.” 

Quinn seems to consider this, and she thinks about it herself. How bad things had gotten after Tehran. Then Afghanistan, Pakistan. How angry she was, guilty, on edge. How fucking harsh she had been to him, refusing to let him help. 

“And you were always there,” she adds. “No matter how bad I got.” 

She thinks it’s important he remembers these things, know that she can see it now. What he means to her, why she won’t give up on him. 

In a moment of absolute risk, she reaches out very slowly for his hand. Gives him every chance to pull away from contact, almost cries when he doesn’t. 

She folds her fingers around his ever so gingerly, sees his expression turn to guilt, his eyes shy away. 

“I’m fine, you didn’t hurt me,” she says, knows he’s thinking of the day before as he eyes her hand. It’s barely bruised, her knuckle a little fat. She wears it proudly, a show of his strength. 

“Is this okay?” Carrie asks, gripping his hand lightly. 

He doesn’t deny her, pull away. But feels so tense he’s about to spring up, leap out of bed, head straight back to the canal, or orchestrate a suicide by cop. 

“Jesus, Quinn,” she says. “It doesn’t have to be this hard.” 

He’s still on edge, breathing tight and ragged. But he holds it back, conquers his panic for the moment. She can feel it rise and fall through him, how much it takes out of him. 

She’s surprised when he replies, thought he had hit his limit of talk. Has already gone far beyond anything she hoped for. 

“I don’t know how to do this,” he mumbles shyly, as if he didn’t mean to say it out loud. 

“Yeah, well that’s pretty obvious,” she replies with her usual snap. Knows he hates being coddled, treated gingerly. 

But she’s been thinking about this, how to frame it for him. Preparing for this moment, her opening. 

“Just let me do these things for you,” she starts, willing him to listen. “Think of it as doing me a favour. This is what I need right now, to be here, to take care of you.”

She doesn’t say the obvious, that he was always to do anything for her, even against his best instincts. She hopes it’s still true now, that his furious hatred of being around her is because she’s in too close, touches his vulnerabilities. 

She watches him think about what she said, a miracle in itself. Doesn’t quite believe this is finally happening, a break in his wall. 

When he finally gives in, says okay in his cracked, unused voice, she thinks they’re both surprised. And of course she knows that he’s still going to struggle with it, that it will take time - that’s just who he is. But she’s glad for that, that he’s still as fucking stubborn and hopeless as before. It’s just Quinn being himself, and that she knows well. 

So she’s going to take every advantage of the moment, knows it may be fleeting. Thinks how her wants are so simple now that she’s figured out what’s important. 

“So it would make me really fucking happy just to sit here with you, talk if you want to,” she continues. “Do you think you can take it?” 

He doesn’t say anything, a perfect reply in itself. Looks at her with total consternation as she tries to contain her happiness at the moment. 

“I’m sorry,” he says after a long while. “I didn’t mean to push you.” 

“Yes you did,” she replies with a smirk. “So it’s okay, you tried your best. Now just accept that you’re not going to make me leave. I’m not going to stop showing up, driving you crazy.” 

She sees him almost quirk a smile before he remembers that he doesn’t do that anymore. But she’s still gripping his hand tight, without a struggle. Carrie realizes how much she’s missed it, tucking her fingers in his. She got used to doing it while he was unconscious, a hard habit to break once he woke up, refused to let her touch him. 

She wasn’t lying, it’s as much for her as it is for him. She just wants to be here with him, shower him with every affection he will allow. Even if he only accepts it at this pace. Whatever he’s ready for, whatever he needs. 

She knows what he needs to eventually face his fears, admit his vulnerability. It’s so hard to watch him pretend to not remember because he can’t talk about it. She thinks the shrinks, the counsellors, they might even buy his bullshit. He’s so good at playing tough, holds it all back until he’s alone. 

She’s never told him any of this, realizes that this is the time. This openness may never come back, despite their best efforts. So she risks her little moment of happiness, takes a slow breath and plunges in bravely.

“I know you remember,” she starts. 

Quinn doesn’t seem surprised that she’s figured it out, doesn’t deny it either. Looks away for a moment, starts to clench his jaw. 

“I know you’re scared,” she continues. Runs her thumb over his knuckles, reminds him that she’s got him. “It’s okay to be. It’s okay to be in pieces right now. No one is judging you except yourself. You don’t have to talk about it until you’re ready.” 

Quinn turns back to look at her, jaw clenched tight, an agitated look. She feels him grip her hand tighter, feels the tenseness build in him, can feel him fighting for control. 

“Stop being so fucking reasonable,” he spits out, his frustration starting to escape. 

Carrie gives him a sideways look, a sly grin. 

“God,” she says. “I don’t think anyone has ever said that to me before.” 

He glares at her for moment before he can’t help it, cracks the smallest of smiles, acknowledges the funniness in it. And still he hasn’t pushed her away, held onto her throughout. Miracles do happen, she thinks to herself. Often for her lately. 

She can tell it helps, but it only slows the tension building in him. All the anger, panic, helplessness he holds back, only letting it out when he’s sure he’s alone. He may think it’s his own little secret but more than once she’s found him asleep, body clenched tight, face streaked with tear tracks. 

“You can lose it on me, if that’s what you need,” she says. “Just let it out.” 

Quinn grits his teeth, shakes his head sharply. She can see him trying to contain it, bite down hard on his lip as he finally pulls his hand away, huddles into himself, facing away. She sees him shudder, knows he’s holding back a spate of emotion, waiting for her to leave. 

“Do you want me to leave?” she asks, doesn’t want to embarrass him by staying too long, witnessing his implosion. 

He doesn’t look at her, doesn’t answer either. Which she takes as a no, an invitation to stay. 

Carrie stands, moves closer to his bed. Breathes away her own anxiety, carefully puts her hand on his back. He doesn’t respond, doesn’t shy away from her touch. And so she doesn’t say anything either, just sits down on the side of his bed, her hand to his back as he starts to shudder, breathe in short tight bursts. 

She feels it all reverberate though his spinal cord - all the pain, all the fear he holds back. The flashbacks, the nightmares. The terror, the helplessness. 

And she knows this is the strongest thing he’s done since he woke up, that she loves him all the more for it. How hard he tries, even when he thinks he’s given up, that he has nothing left. 

The panic attack lasts awhile, it’s close to an hour before he stops shaking violently, his heart rate finally slowing. And then he holds himself tightly for another long while while his breathing evens out, until he’s let it all out. All of the emotion he can’t control, everything he tries to keep inside. 

“Hey,” she says, rubbing his back absently. “You’re going to be okay.”

Quinn takes a deep breath, slowly turns towards her. She reluctantly pulls her hand away from his back as he rolls over, then actually faces her, traces of panic still glistening in his eyes. 

“I fucking hate this,” he growls, sounds so tired she can barely handle it.

But this is all a breakthrough, an unexpected gift of hope. Enough to tell her that things are getting better, that he’s starting to heal. 

She’s proud beyond words, in awe of his resilience. That he suffers so much, so stoically. And yet, after everything he’s been through, he can still care about her, even when he doesn’t care about himself, nurses every self-destructive instinct. 

“Me too,” she replies. “But it will get better. We’re going to get through this.”

She knows he doesn’t believe her, but he doesn’t argue either. Just lies quietly, eyes closed. He looks completely drawn, barely hanging on. 

“You look exhausted,” Carrie says, thinking how much he needs to rest, how he refuses to sleep during the day. 

“I couldn’t sleep,” he mutters. 

Again, more than she expects. But Carrie’s learned not to push it, doesn’t ask why. Waits to see if he will continue, or if that’s all he’s got for now. 

He’s quiet for a long while after that, not quite asleep but on the edge. Carrie resists the urge to run her fingers through his hair, another habit she’s had a hard time dropping ever since he awoke. 

And just as she’s wondering if he’s really fallen asleep, Quinn exhales tiredly. 

“I thought you really left,” he says, so quietly she barely makes out the words. 

It’s such an honest moment, the hardest of admissions. At first Carrie doesn’t know what to say, how to reciprocate. Then realizes that the truth is her best bet, a little tit for tat. 

“I didn’t sleep either,” she says. 

“I was so scared you meant it.” 

Of course she would never leave, he would never mean it. But it’s just the way between them, the constant struggle to open up. 

“I tried to,” he replies, still with his eyes shut, on the edge of sleep. 

“I know,” she says with a smile. “I’m glad you didn’t.” 

“Me too,” Quinn admits, almost too quiet to hear. 

“I’m going to sleep now,” he adds. “But you can stay if you want.” 

It is incredible just to see him like this, almost relaxed in her presence, open to talking. She can’t quite believe all it took was ‘leaving’ him, giving him what he kept saying he wanted. 

Of course it won’t last forever, she doesn’t expect it to. Cherishes the moment all the more because of that, this chance to just be with him, allow him a few minutes of peace. 

So she sits with him as he falls towards sleep. Clenches her hand to avoid touching him, knows he’s already letting her in further than he’s comfortable with. 

But then, just as she’s sure he’s slipped under, he opens his eyes briefly, looks at her sleepily. 

“You can do it if you want,” he mumbles. 

Carrie’s a little embarrassed to be called on it, but it lights a smile on her face. Her little secret is out, she thinks. But so is his. 

So she lets her hand over, runs her fingers lightly through his hair. Quinn tenses for just a moment, then slowly relaxes, finally falls asleep under her touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so angsty... but sort of happy? (fair representation of the rest of this fic)


	3. ch2part1

Right hand, left hand. 

Right foot. Pause. Grunt. 

Fuck, he thinks to himself. Don’t be a fucking pussy. 

Shuffle.

His left foot moves about four inches. Quinn nearly collapses with the effort. 

Physical therapy is somehow both torture and relief. He relishes the pain, pushing his weakened body to its absolute limits. The best part is that he can’t think much while he “walks”, holding onto the stabilization bars with all his strength, struggling to move his left leg just a few inches. 

But each session leaves him completely wiped, physically and emotionally. Unable to keep his walls up, exposed in every way. 

Quinn remembers back to his first session - grunting, sweating just to stand up, support his own weight. Still the physical therapist had beamed with enthusiasm, used far too many encouraging words. 

He had learned to swallow his negativity by then, the part of him that abhors the cheeriness of all the hospital staff around him. From the start he couldn’t stand the general encouragement, all the smiles he got from his nurses and therapists. It only made him feel worse about hating it, hating them for doing their jobs. 

So he just struggles in silence now, lets his actions speak for him. Which actually makes the nurses smile even more at him, the therapists even more enthusiastic with their support of his endless efforts. 

He knows they’ve all seen the video, that they all view him with a mix of horror and pity. That they’re all cheering him on, pamper him as much as he will allow. 

There’s nothing he can do about it, despite the fact that he hates it. He doesn’t want their endless support, their naive positivity. 

But at least he got his way with one thing, the most important thing really. 

From the start, he banned her from any therapy sessions, will not allow her to watch him struggle. He can’t deal with the thought of her being there, cheering him on. It’s bad enough with the staff, their sidelong looks, their unwanted sympathy. He absolutely cannot bear that from Carrie, will not accept her pity, her wall-shattering looks. 

Not that it didn’t make him feel like shit. Telling her to fuck off, denying her entry to any of his PT sessions. Refusing to “walk” around her, so she won’t see how pathetic his efforts still are. 

He knows it’s ridiculous, petty. But he’s lost control of everything else - his body, his brain, his life. And this is one thing that he can still control.

So he doesn’t let her watch, refuses to talk about his progress. Even after he’s clearly able to shuffle about on his own, his new compadre the walker always by his bedside. Blatantly ignores her when she asks, tells the staff that he doesn’t want them to tell her anything. 

He knows how much it hurts her, absolutely can’t help himself these days. And the truth is, he still desperately wants her to both go and stay at the same time. But he can’t let himself actually want her to stay, knows that’s dangerous territory. So he just continually pushes her away, draws from the well of anger inside him. Even though it’s so fucking hard to do it, makes him feel like a pile of shit. 

But he’s so used to that now. Having no worth. Hurting Carrie at every turn, trying his best to keep his distance just adds to the self-hate. He thinks it might not be long before he hits the end, can’t go any deeper. 

Which is motivation in itself. A real goal, the one thing he wants to work towards. 

Quinn breathes, clears his head. Goes back to the focus of just moving his legs. No more thinking, he tells himself. Struggles through the rest of his shuffle steps, right to the end of the stabilizing bars. Turns around, stoically starts back right away. 

The physical therapist smiles at him in that way he hates, tells him he’s really improving. Quinn puts on a bashful smile over his gritted teeth, nods once, knows that will put off any talking on his part. 

He even manages a quiet “thanks” on the way out, pushes his walker through her doors before the therapist calls for a nurse to escort him back. He wonders if she will put in the call, how far he can get while he has some time to roam. 

He doesn’t get much alone time these days. Just at night, while he hides away from his terrors. Brief moments snatched between therapy sessions, Carrie’s endless visits. 

So it feels good to steal some time, shuffle off on his own. He’s done it a few times already, snuck off for a walk around the halls. Against recommendations of course - they’re worried he’ll fall, suffer some sort of relapse. 

But it gives him something to do, a way to escape the monotony. And it opens up possibilities, a scant ray of hope. 

All the staff think he’s doing great, are so easily duped by his quietness, the effort he makes. And he is getting stronger, is even getting back some of his emotional control. But he still fucking hates it all, the pointlessness. Just wants it to end. This endless pain in his head, the constant fear of life. 

So he doesn’t tell them anything, pretends everything is fine. That he’s a stoic wounded operative, working hard to get out of this hospital, just to go to another one. Because there’s no way they’d let him out of sight if they had any idea of his true state of mind. 

Quinn briefly grins to himself, thinks at least he’s still got that. The ability to cover his true self, hide away his emotions.

Of course, in his slow wanderings, Quinn finds himself drawn to the darkest corridors, disused stairwells. He’s found that he can even manage stairs. Though only with an embarrassing amount of effort, a lot of resting, some falling. 

And in his travels he’s managed to spot a lot of opportunities. Sharps, drugs, heights. Thoughts he tucks into a corner of his mind. There’s even a possibility of making it look accidental, though he knows Carrie will see right through it. 

Fuck, Quinn thinks. Shuffles another step. Thinking about her touches his every nerve, sets off waves of guilt. 

He knows she will be really upset with him, has told him more than once. But it’s all he can do for her now - let her go, free her of her burden. 

It’s ironic, that this drive to kill himself is the only thing that really keeps him going. It’s something to plan for, a tiny spot of hope. A way to escape from the endless despair, that look of concern, the part of him that likes it, still wants to let her soothe away his terror. 

So he pushes on, further into the depths of the hospital. And some of the old skills come back - noticing unlocked doors, hiding spots, potential weapons. 

Quinn keeps moving, slowly but with determination. He avoids a few questioning eyes, ducking into empty rooms before anyone notices he’s not meant to be out on his own. Eventually finds himself at the end of a quiet hallway that doesn’t quite look as it should. 

Quinn pauses, scans the area. There’s no one around, a couple of patients’ rooms with closed doors. He tries to figure out what’s different about this hallway, why he has the feeling that he’s missing something. 

There’s a door to the stairwell in the usual place. He can see the stairs going both up and down through the window in the door. 

But his physical therapy sessions are on the top floor of the hospital, Quinn suddenly remembers. So the stairs up must lead to the roof. 

This is exactly the type of thing he’s set out to find, little facts to hide away, make him feel just a bit more secure. 

Quinn looks around, double checks that the hallway is still clear. Pushes open the door, looks up the stairs. 

Fuck, he thinks. There’s another door up there but it’s clearly alarmed. Which is good in a way, indicates that it definitely leads to the roof. But not if he trips an alarm, doesn’t have time to complete his mission. 

That’s when he remembers that alarms were never a problem for him, that there’s always a way around any security system. Even with limited mobility, poor fine motor skills. 

Quinn steps back out of the stairway, pushes his walker quietly in front of him. Remembers the little tool set he saw at the last nurses station he passed. 

The simplest of plans forms in his head as he makes his way away from the stairwell, to the opposite end of the floor. Eyes the tool set again as he passes the nurses station but is careful to shuffle by while the nurse is harried, busy with a patient.

At the far corridor, he opens the door to a patient’s room. Thankfully the patient is sleeping and Quinn is unobserved as he presses the nurse call button then shuffles away as quickly as he can. 

He takes the long route back to the nurses station, has plenty of time to take the tools and shuffle away before the nurse returns. By the time he makes it back to the stairway door, Quinn’s breathing rapidly, sweating from exertion. He’s already been on the move for much longer than he’s used to, and right after a hard session of PT too. The smart move would be to hide his new tool, come back when he’s fresher. He still has to make to the top of a flight of stairs before he even gets to the door. 

But he’s got the tool in his hand. And there might never be another chance like this. So Quinn grits his teeth, exhales tiredly. Pushes through the door into the stairwell, closes it quietly behind him after he pulls his walker through. 

So far so good. Quinn pauses, leans against his walker and closes his eyes for a long moment. Gathers up what little energy he has left, tries to pull deep from the well. 

A moment of Syria flashes through his mind. Injured, exhausted. Also Berlin. The struggle to the canal. 

Always for her, he realizes. An unbidden thought. 

She is his only quandary, has been for so long. 

It’s just too bad they want different things for her. That she’s fooled herself into caring. 

Quinn clenches his jaw at the thought of her, looks up at the stairs in front of him. Focuses on his goal. Lifts his right leg up onto the first stair. Slowly drags his left in behind. Repeat.

He is sweating, almost in cold shivers by the time he gets to the door. Leans against it, eyes closed. Rests for a few minutes. 

Quinn opens his eyes with difficulty. Forces himself awake, looks at the alarm on the door. It’s usually an easy procedure, separating the alarm from its power supply. He’s got the tool, but his fine motor skills are seriously compromised. And he’s low on blood sugar, about to give out. 

Still Quinn isn’t going to let up, has gotten this far. He reminds himself he might not ever get this chance again. Steadies himself as much as he can, holds the screwdriver in his right hand. Counts himself down. Tries to remember how it used to be. 

He pries the system open, has to work at it for awhile. Eventually pops the wires free, cuts the connection as best he can. Not optimal but he thinks it was a success. Quinn pushes through the door, hears nothing but air rushing by as he steps outside, onto the roof. 

His first few shuffle steps, without his trusty support, are so wobbly he knows he won’t make it. Is only a quarter of the way to the edge when he ends up putting his hands down on the roof, barely keeps from tumbling. 

It ends up easier that way, safer too. How ironic. 

Quinn soldier crawls to the edge, lays with his head right on the precipice. Looks over the side, nods contently at the distance. It’s definitely high enough. With a hard landing. 

He almost falls asleep like that, finds himself dozing on and off for awhile. It’s not comfortable but he’s fucking tired, completely out of juice. 

When he next fully wakes, Quinn isn’t sure how long he was out. Either way, he knows he’s been gone much too long, that they are surely looking for him by now. And he’s too tired to go back anyway. To crawl all the way back to the door, somehow descend the stairs. 

His time is limited then. And this is likely his only chance for a long time now. Otherwise it’s lockdown. Ultra concerned nurses, doctors, therapists. Carrie, upset as usual. 

Quinn pushes himself up to a seated position, manages to get his legs over the edge. It’s fairly precarious, with his lack of balance, extreme fatigue. He even has a brief thought that he might actually just fall, a sort-of accident. But that’s a coward’s thought, too easy for him. If he’s going to do it he had better be fucking sure. 

Because she is going to be very upset. And somewhere, deep under all his fear and anger, he still cares.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ch 2 is in 3 parts, part ii c's pov coming up soon...


	4. ch2partii

Quinn’s been gone much longer than usual, long enough that she’s started to worry. Physical therapy ended over two hours ago. He could be anywhere by now, based on what she’s heard. 

Not that he ever shows her, banned her from his PT sessions early on. Even tries to stop the nurses from telling her about his progress. Which just makes them wonder about their relationship all the more. Why he’s so angry with her, why she comes around when she’s clearly not wanted. 

But Carrie’s come to accept whatever he gives her. Knows that this is a struggle for him, that he’s grasping to maintain his sense of identity. Regain control of things in whatever small ways he can. 

Not that her patience doesn’t sometimes run out. She is frustrated by him daily, wants to yell at him after nearly every interaction. But the thing is, it’s just how they always were. At odds, irritated with each other. And yet, it’s always worked in it’s own way. They understood each other, they still do. 

Quinn is soldier-stubborn. Even now, he refuses to be babied, taken care of. And she is still Carrie, just tempered down by her recent experiences. So it’s always a battle, the way it always was.

Carrie thinks back to the time, not that long ago when she forced him to pick up the fucking fork by telling him she was going to feed him if he couldn’t do it himself. She knows his nurses think she’s a bitch to him, their gorgeous spy, who survived the gas chamber only to wake to numerous deficits, a fucked up head. 

But she knows who he is, what pushes him on. The chance to say fuck you back to her, that gleam of satisfaction when he threatens her with the fork. That is Quinn at his core, a survivor, a fighter. 

Yet he’s struggling so much with his sense of self. So scared to let anyone care about him, especially her. 

Carrie paces the hall in front of his room, thinks about going to look for him. She knows the nurses will start to be concerned soon but he’s somehow charmed them into giving him this freedom. Convinced them he’s fine to be wandering about on his own. 

She also knows he will be exceptionally pissed off when she finds him, that it will likely lead to days of sullenness. It’s all of the constant back and forth between them. Him rejecting her attempts to care, because he wants to suffer, thinks he should. 

Except she’s found moments in between, cracks in his emotional armour. When he allows himself some comfort, a bit of the care he needs. She knows he’s hurting so badly, afraid of his new reality. Hiding it away behind his hard shell, fooling everyone but her. 

Carrie takes a breath, decides it’s worth looking for him, even if he explodes on her. Anything to calm her nerves at this point. She knows he’s in a dark spot, that he thinks about suicide. He conceals it well, at least from the doctors. And she doesn’t say anything, won’t betray him like that. Even though she knows she should, that it’s a risk to let him walk around by himself in his mental state. 

But she remembers the few times she’s been there, almost ready to end things. How fucking pissed off she would have been to be told on. Especially in the hospital, where they lock you down right away. 

She can’t do that to him, not when they’re rebuilding trust. But now here she is, freaking out a little bit, starting to form regrets already. Looking for him, yet again.

Carrie starts her search at the physical therapy unit, looks around, trying to think like Quinn. It’s not hard, really. She knows him, understands where his head’s at. 

It’s a quiet floor, Carrie walks all the corridors, looking for anything out of the ordinary. Wanders by the nursing stations, ears open. Hears something about a false call out in room 724 earlier, tucks it away as a possible clue.

Eventually she finds a stairwell, mentally notes that it is on the opposite side of the floor from the false call out. Thinks that could have significance. 

Then Carrie opens the door, sees the abandoned walker, the damaged alarm. And suddenly all the pride she felt at his maneuvers turns to ice in her veins. 

She runs up the stairs, pushes through the door in a complete panic. Stands on the roof of the hospital, sees a lone figure sitting on the edge. 

Her heart pounds and she almost collapses with relief. Puts her hands to her thighs for a moment, takes a few deep breaths. Then walks over as calmly as she can, silently sits down next to him. 

He looks completely wiped, ashen, covered in cold sweat. It’s a wonder he hasn’t just fallen off sitting there, his balance clearly precarious at best. 

Carrie looks down, then back at Quinn. 

“Well, it’s high enough,” she says. Remembers thinking about jumping once. Coming down from a manic state, after fucking everything up yet another time. But it was more from euphoria, agitation, than any real desire for death, falling. 

Quinn nods, doesn’t look at her. 

“How worried should I be?” she asks. 

He doesn’t answer, not that she expected anything. Not without a little more pushing, a little fuel in the fire. 

She waits awhile to be sure he’s got nothing to say. Thinks about how she can put this, what words will still have an affect on him when he’s so despondent, out of reach. 

It’s so touchy with him, a wrong word, the way she says it. It can be the difference between him shutting down, or being able to hear her. So she treads lightly, but always tells him the truth. He deserves that at least, after he’s lost control of everything else. 

“You know, the first time it wasn’t your fault. But this time it will be,” she finally says. 

It’s just abstract enough, challenges him to interpret what she means. All without her saying any of the things that typically trigger him. That she cares, that he matters to her. 

Quinn looks at her briefly and she sees darkness cloud over his eyes. He seems to understand what she’s getting at - the times he broke her. 

Watching him die. Because of her. 

Letting him die. Not being enough. 

He’s quiet for a long time, as she expects. Everything comes slower with him now, at a glacial pace. But still she tamps down her frustration, reminds herself how appreciative she is of anything she gets. 

“You’ll get over it,” he finally says. 

It’s what she expects, what he continues to hold onto. That this is just misplaced guilt, that she’s only staying to make herself feel better. And she can’t even blame him for it. Not after she let him go, never cared for him properly. 

“I know you really think that,” she replies quietly. “But it’s the depression talking. Lying to you. I’m telling you the truth, Quinn. I will never get over losing you again.” 

Again he doesn’t answer but he looks at her for awhile. As if assessing the truth of her statement, whether she’s just manipulating him like usual.

Carrie knows she deserves it, especially after everything she’s put him through in the past. But she’s never been more sincere than she is now, it just took tragedy to get her there. 

“So. How worried should I be?” she asks again. 

She sees the irritation flick in his eyes, that quick emotional trigger about to flip. 

“Don’t fucking tell me not to,” he says. 

“I’m not,” she replies. “I’m just telling you how I will feel about it.” 

Quinn exhales in irritation. Looks at her with fury in his eyes. 

“It’s the same fucking thing,” he growls. 

She knows right then, what she’s been wondering since he awoke. It’s still there. The part of him that would do anything for her. 

He’s hidden it deep, under layers of fear, hopelessness, self-negation. So deep she really thought it might be gone, that he’d really cast her from his heart. But she kept on telling herself that he pushes her away because he’s still vulnerable to her, because he still does care. Enough to try and drive her away, save her from him. 

And now. If he’s willing to hang on for her, that’s all she can ask for, knows how hard it is. 

“It would break me,” she says. “I know you, Quinn. You would never do anything to hurt me.” 

“I do it all the time,” he replies, defiantly, eyes dark. 

“Because you think you’re protecting me,” she says. “And because you like how bad it makes you feel.” 

He clearly wants to argue, has that clench in his jaw. It almost makes her smile, she has to push it down. He’s so fucking contrary. Yet she wouldn’t have him any other way. 

“Fuck you, Carrie,” he says, in a tone of tired defeat.

Carrie almost smiles again, turns so he can’t see. She didn’t think he would have done it and now she’s sure. He’s pissed at her for putting an end to his planning. It was his final escape plan and now she’s shut it down. She knows what that’s like, to be at the end of hope. 

All she can do is hope for him, that he will find something in this second chance at life. That he can start to let go of all the pain, hurt, fear. Get through the bleak days to come. So that she can stop worrying that he will eventually take off, die on her again. 

“If it ever gets to be too much, promise you’ll tell me first. I know I can’t stop you if it’s what you really want. But I can’t lose you like that. Without a chance to remind you how much you fucking mean to me,” she says. 

Quinn frowns, thinks about it for awhile. She knows he’s sick of hearing it, but she keeps on telling him anyway. In hopes that he will believe it at some point, get past the self-loathing. 

Finally he nods, just the slightest bit. 

“Okay,” he mutters.

She gives him a skeptical look, is sure he’s just bullshitting her. But Quinn looks over and his eyes are resigned, tired.

“Promise,” he grumbles, rolling his eyes in irritation.

Carrie smiles now, doesn’t bother to hide it. She thinks how fucking courageous he is, how he never stops fighting. 

“I know it’s hard, Quinn. I am so fucking impressed by you every day,” she says. 

Quinn shakes his head, shrugs off her words. His body language says ‘yeah right’, shoulders slumped. Dejected, defeated. 

“Don’t sulk, you’re just mad that I still care,” Carrie says, giving him a little nudge with her shoulder. “That you do too.” 

Quinn grunts at that, is still wearing that frustrated look he gets. But Carrie knows she got it right, that he’s actually hearing her for once. 

She leans up against him, both of them still looking over the edge of the roof. Feels him shiver under his thin hospital outfit, realizes that he’s freezing, exhausted. That she needs to get him off the roof, doesn’t want to have to call for assistance. 

“Hey, you’re freezing,” she says, putting her arm around him, trying to warm him up. “We should go inside.” 

Quinn shivers again, she rubs his shoulder a bit, passes on some body heat. Wonders what he’s going to do. He hasn’t let her in on his progress at all, won’t even fucking walk in front of her. And he obviously made it up the stairs, almost off the roof. But now he’s clearly exhausted, will probably need help just to get to his feet. So the choice is there. 

She can see he knows it, keeps looking at her with that frustrated frown. The one he uses when she’s trapped him with his own concern. But this time she’s stuck him with hers. 

So she pulls her arm away from him, pushes herself to her feet. Looks down and offers him her hand. 

Waits forever to see if he will take it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> one more part in ch2. part iii coming up, back to q


	5. ch2partiii

“Don’t sulk, you’re just mad that I still care,” Carrie says, nudging up against him. “That you do too.” 

Quinn feels the frustration rise, knows she can see it in his expression. He hates that she can still get to him like this, read him so well. He feels so exposed in front of her, all his vulnerabilities right at the surface. 

And yet. He does vaguely remember wanting to be known. Wanting her to know him. It’s just so far away these days, under so many layers of anger, frustration, low self-image. It’s so much easier just to think that it’s not worth it, that she should find a better cause. 

But still she’s here, has not given up on him. And he’s already promised her not to kill himself without letting her in on it. Which even surprised himself. But she is right on one thing, as much as he doesn’t want to admit it. He does still care about her, hates having to hurt her.

He grunts in reply, annoyed and weary. She’s found him with his guards down due to pure exhaustion. He’s got nothing left to give, is down to his last stores of energy. And he’s still got to get back inside now, his other option gone.

Quinn shivers, unable to stop it. Feels the cold in his core now, isn’t sure he’s got enough to get back. But he still doesn’t want her help, want her to see. It’s stupid he knows, irrational. But still. He hates being weak in front of her, incapable.

“Hey, you’re freezing,” Carrie says, putting her arm around him. “We should go inside.” 

His first instinct is to push her off, squirm out from under her touch. But then he shivers again and she rubs his shoulder a little. He feels the heat of her body on his skin, can’t deny that it feels good. 

He is going to need her to help him across, or call for someone else. The only other way he can make it would be on his hands and knees, too pathetic to even think about. 

He can feel her concern through her touch, her hand on his shoulder. He waits for the anger that always accompanies her care, that makes him push her away. 

But it doesn’t come, at least not in the usual way. He’s still resentful, wants to avoid her support. But he’s also tired, afraid. Almost likes the feeling of her arm wrapped around him.

So when she pulls her arm away from him, it’s like the cold rushes right through him again, leaves him freezing at the core. 

Carrie pushes herself to her feet, then looks down and offers him her hand. Stands there, looks down at him expectantly.

And right then he realizes it’s time to face some of his fears. That it’s his penalty for not ending it before she found him. Maybe even waiting for her to show, stop him. 

It takes a long time, partly because Quinn’s so tired he can barely move his limbs. But mostly because he’s still scared of being broken, of needing her at all. 

Yet she’s still there, offering. 

So he reaches up, takes her hand. Feels the warmth of her fingers fold around his frozen ones, lets her pull him slowly to his feet. 

Quinn is unsteady for a moment, finds it hard to balance without the walker to grasp onto, all while shaking due to the cold. Carrie waits patiently, then puts her arm around his waist, stabilizes him against her. 

“Ready?” she asks, clearly nervous. 

He feels bad for making her so anxious around him, it’s so unlike Carrie to be so thoughtful, cautious. But he’s exploded on her so many times, pushed so hard that she’s extremely careful around him now, ready to protect the both of them from his irrational anger. 

And usually he’d just feed the guilt, remind himself it’s why he’s pushing. To break her will, make her move on. Because he isn’t worth it, is too broken to be fixed. 

But this time Quinn’s so tired he can’t find the energy to hate himself, resent her. He needs warmth, rest. Maybe even some comfort, support. 

“Yeah,” he says. Puts his arm around her shoulders, grasps onto her tightly. Takes a slow step with his stronger leg. Tries to lift the weaker one to match, mostly has to drag it along. 

He focuses entirely on his feet so he doesn’t have to look at her, see the pity he expects to find in her eyes. Step, drag. Step, drag. 

He is totally wiped, almost hypothermic. But he pushes through the weakness, shuffle walks slowly but surely until they reach the door. 

Quinn exhales in relief, has to lean his head against the door for a moment before continuing. Acutely feels Carrie’s arm wrapped around his lower back, her hand just above his hip.

She’s rubbing his side absently, probably doesn’t even realize she’s doing it. His immediate reaction is to look over, growl, tell her to stop. But when he looks at her, she’s looking at him in an undefinable way. It’s not the pity he expects, nor that teary smile she gets when she thinks he’s not looking. More like a cross between a smile and a frown, a bit of amused exasperation.

“What?” he asks, more sharply than he means to. 

“As if you made it all the way out there,” she says, will a little disbelieving Carrie scoff. “You must have really wanted it.” 

He thinks about it, asks himself how much he did want it. An easy death, no more struggle. There is a lot of appeal, even now. He wants to protect her, doesn’t know how else to. 

But he hadn’t taken the opportunity, even with all that time to think about it. And, when he’s truthful with himself, he knows why. 

It’s what he wants for her. But like she said, he knows how much it will hurt her, maybe even more than he thinks. And he can’t put her though it. Not after all that’s just happened. 

Quinn leans against the door, still looking at Carrie. He’s tired, conflicted, full of holes that are letting her seep in. 

His self-denial game is strong but this is Carrie, his fucking kryptonite. Nobody else knows him this way, sees what’s under his armour. 

He loves her for not coddling him, for giving him space even though she hates it. He might even love her for staying, for not giving up on him, finding him again and again. But he’s not ready to admit that yet, still wants to hang on to the denial. 

He knows she deserves something though, a little appreciation after all he’s put her through. He’s just so out of practice Quinn doesn’t know what to say, how to let it out. 

“I knew you’d come get me,” he finally mutters, forcing himself to look at her. He hopes she understands what he means - that he couldn’t do it because of her, that he was waiting for her to find him. 

She smiles then, a real one. No pity or sadness, actual happiness coming through.

I did that, he thinks. Made her happy, if just for a moment. 

He tries to remember that he did it by not jumping off the roof of the hospital, that she should have so many other things in her life making her happy. It’s habit by now, the self-debasement, the constant stream of negative things he uses against himself. 

Yet Carrie’s still smiling at him, her hand warm on his hip. And it actually feels good, to have this moment. To tell her a truth, make her happy. 

“Thanks for waiting,” she says after awhile. A slightly sarcastic tone, with something between a tear and a twinkle in her eye. 

God, he loves her, Quinn thinks hopelessly. No matter how much he hates himself for it, tries to destroy it at every turn. She’s the one thing left that he cares about, standing there with him, holding him up. 

So he lets her open the door for him, support half his weight as they precariously descend the stairs. And when they get to his walker, he doesn’t grab for it, resists the reflex. Instead, he opens the stairway door, leans up against Carrie as they walk through together. 

She pulls the walker behind them but doesn’t say a word. He knows she doesn’t want to break the moment; that she’s wondering when he’s going to get defensive, cast her aside, say something nasty. 

So he resists the urge. She’s already seen his weaknesses, knows he’s broken, useless. But still she hasn’t left, refuses to give up. And it’s so hard to be so harsh to her, even though he relishes in the guilt it brings on, the self-hate. 

Quinn swallows his nerves, tamps down the anxiety of weakness. Lets Carrie support him through the corridors, notices that she perfectly anticipates his every need. Pulls him closer to help him balance when he’s shaky, pauses when he’s tired, needs an extra breath. 

He tells himself he’s only allowing it because he’s exhausted, can’t find the energy to resist. That it’s just a one time thing, that he can go back to pushing her away once he’s stronger. 

And yet, somewhere deep within, he knows he needs this. Someone to hold him, tell him he’s going to be okay. He’s just not willing to admit it yet, is still scared of what it means. 

But he lets it go this time, lets himself have a moment of comfort. Leans against Carrie all the way to his room, lets her put him to bed, tuck him in. 

Quinn’s so tired he almost drops off immediately. He feels Carrie put her hand on his back, rub it absently with her thumb as he curls up facing away from her, holing up under his blanket. Normally he would resist, tell her to leave. But he’s exhausted, freezing. So he pretends not to notice, falls asleep with her hand warm against his skin.


	6. ch3parti

It’s been a couple weeks of planning, prepping. The thoughts stirring as he gains strength and mobility. Though it’s hard to concentrate still, keep things straight in his head. His short term memory is fucked, he needs to constantly repeat things mentally to not lose track of his thoughts. Which makes the planning good for him in two ways - it keeps his mind occupied and makes him rewire his neurons. 

In a way it’s a diluted, pathetic version of his past life. Looking for ins and outs everywhere, ways to escape. Assessing every object’s value as a tool, mapping each exit point in preparation for his attempt. 

He’s had less freedom since he disappeared after PT that day, no more hour long solo treks. Doesn’t know exactly what Carrie told them - probably just to keep an eye on him, nothing to give up his little secret though. He hasn’t had to answer any extra questions about his state of mind, they haven’t stopped letting him near sharps. 

But truthfully, he hasn’t been that low since she convinced him not to do it, made him promise to tell her if he was going to off himself. Death isn’t quite as inviting as it once was, though Quinn still considers it an option. Just not the only one anymore. 

So he’s been thinking about other things, the possibility of disappearing. Wonders if she will be more or less upset about it, thinks at least its not as final. But of course that means she wouldn’t just give up on him, would try to find him for awhile. 

Is it worse to be always looking? To wonder where he is, if he’s even still alive? What would he rather if the situation were reversed? To know she was gone, to mourn her always? Or to hang onto the barest of hopes, the slightest of chances? 

He thinks if he can get away then there will be time for him to think. Time away from Carrie, so he can have a clearer mind. She clouds his every thought, pulls at him so strongly. But that’s because she’s always around, won’t fucking leave him no matter what. 

So, his plan. 

He needs a disturbance that occupies a lot of the staff for about an hour. Enough time to get him out of the building, away from the grounds. But he doesn’t have a lot to work with, and doesn’t want to cause any permanent damage, hurt anyone. So no bleach bombs. 

Also, there’s the matter of his limited freedom to create a device, his uncooperative fingers too. It had to be simple, something he can make from basic materials. 

Which left him with one main option. 

The instant cold packs were easy to grab, snuck out of a first aid kit in a therapy room. And newspapers were even easier, left by visitors all over the place. 

The lighter was the hardest part, took days of walk-bys, attempts at coats hanging on chairs. Not a lot of the personnel smoke, so he had to try a lot of pockets before he found one. But then, he had everything he needed, just had to do some prep.

So Quinn had spent a night locked in his bathroom, stirring ammonium nitrate, soaking and drying newspapers. He remembers being concerned about the noise of the hand dryer as he patiently dried each sheet. But no one had come to check on him and by the morning he had two rolled up bundles of sheets. Tied neatly together, hidden behind the toilet. 

That was two nights ago. He had considered going right away, then decided it was better to take a day to rest, make sure he’s ready. 

Because, in reality, Quinn’s not entirely sure this is a good idea. Rationally he knows what will happen if he runs, goes off on his own. Sink into the darkness. Drink away the days. 

Emotionally though, he craves the freedom, the chance to fall off the earth. To be anonymous, completely hidden. 

He hates being constrained, under the watchful eye of the nurses, the doctors, Carrie. He hates being worried about, being the subject of endless pity. 

And yet. He didn’t go right away. Needed to see her to be sure, a chance to say a silent goodbye. Because there isn’t going to be a note this time, he has to sever it completely if he’s to really go. 

Quinn reminds himself it’s for her, really. That this is best for them both. She’s so tied down by her guilt, her need to atone. While he continues to be mostly hostile, angry because she cares. 

Then there are his moments of total weakness, when he’s too tired to deflect it all. When he lets her touch him, allows himself a little warmth. It shouldn’t feel as good as it does, and he’s still generally able to resist it. But it scares the shit out of him, makes him feel so fucking vulnerable. 

Sometimes he wants it so badly. But then he immediately hates himself for it. It’s just so hard to accept. His fucked up body, fucked up brain. She never loved him before, obviously can’t love him now. It’s just pity, worry, guilt. 

And so the cycle goes on. Where she tells him in every way he allows that she’s there for him, that she cares. And he resists as much as he can, until she wears him down, badgers him into allowing it for a moment. Even though it always ends in backlash against her, when he punishes them both by re-creating the wall between them. 

Even now, ready to fire, he’s still thinking about her. His last look at her the previous day, maybe the last time he ever sees her. The thought makes his guts growl, somewhere between anticipation and anxiety. He thinks how he will miss her, then berates himself for it. Yet it’s much easier than letting this go on, this constant push and pull. 

Quinn takes a deep breath, tries to clear his head. Reviews the plan, mentally plays through his next steps. It’s early morning, low staff to patient ratio. His hallway is clear of watchful eyes, and Carrie isn’t due for at least an hour. Now or never, he thinks. 

Quinn pushes himself out of bed, shuffle walks over to his bathroom. He’s able to get around without the walker for short periods of time now, slowly but surely building his strength and balance. 

First he turns on the light in his bathroom, the taps too. Then he takes his hidden bundles of newspaper and leaves, locking and shutting the door behind him. 

The hallway is still empty, so he slips out of his room, tries to blend in with the walls. He takes a route that avoids all nursing stations, one he’s plotted out awhile ago. 

His first stop is an isolated bathroom at the far end of a hallway. Quinn steps in, closes the door. Takes the lighter out, tries to get his thumb to work the mechanism. 

It’s a tricky movement, requires precise pressure and timing. He’s been practicing since he got the lighter, still has trouble with it. 

Today it takes him almost a full minute to get it to produce a flame, then another few to carefully light the newspaper, place it in the corner of the bathroom. It’s starting to burn nicely by the time he exits the bathroom, will start producing smoke out the door in about ten minutes, he estimates. 

Which is enough time for him to get to the other bathroom, do the whole process over again with the second bundle of newspaper. He’s even quicker this time, able to get the lighter going with just a few tries. And by the time the second bundle is flaming in the corner, he’s fully into it, revels in the action. 

It’s at least a piece of his former life, a flash of capacity. Yes he may still walk like a gimp, slowly making his left side work as he struggles down the stairs, makes for the exit. But there’s a real satisfaction in hearing the smoke alarms go off, seeing the disruption that follows.

Quinn makes it down to the ground floor exit while alarms are still sounding, sidles in amongst the other mobile patients that are being escorted out the door. Hangs onto the side of the group once they’re outside, then slips behind a large shrub and starts making his way off the grounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ch3partii coming up... c's pov of course


	7. ch3partii

Carrie stands at the window, looks down at the crowd of patients and staff gathering outside the entrance. She should be exiting the building too, the smoke alarms going off in every direction. 

But she knows there’s no fire. And she’s busy watching one particular patient as he slips off past the shrubs. 

Somehow she had known. Instantly, instinctively. Even before she got to his room to check her intuition. 

Carrie had come to the hospital earlier than usual, had just made her way up to Quinn’s floor when nurses started yelling about a fire. 

She had watched as nurses called for firefighters, as others tried to locate the source of all the smoke. And her first thought was to check on Quinn, help him get outside. But then, as she was making her way to his room, it became obvious that the smoke was coming from two locked bathrooms at different ends of the floor, that there was something odd going on. 

So she wasn’t exactly surprised to find his bed empty, his own bathroom ‘occupied’. But it’d been pretty obvious that he wasn’t there, that the smoke bombs were a diversion. 

That’s what made her think to go to a window, try to spot him from there. And almost as if on cue, a solitary figure steps away from the crowd, sneaks off at a slow shuffle. 

Carrie smiles to herself, finds that she isn’t all that worried. He could have killed himself anytime, even after she told the nurses to watch him more carefully, made him promise to talk to her first. He’s still resourceful, determined, impulsive. 

A nurse comes flying through the hallway just then, tells Carrie that they’re evacuating patients, that they can’t find Quinn. 

Carrie looks at the nurse, realizes too late that she’s still smiling. 

“I’m sure he’s fine,” she says casually. “He’s probably just in the bathroom.” 

“That’s what we thought too,” the nurse continues, babbling on. “But when we finally checked, it was empty, the water running and lights on. We think he may be having some sort of flashback episode, maybe triggered by the alarms and smoke.” 

Oh yeah, he triggered the alarms and smoke, Carrie thinks. Has to hold back a laugh, knows the staff already think she’s some sort of nut job. Half stalking the poor guy.

Carrie can’t come up with much to say that won’t implicate Quinn, alert them to his involvement. She knows he’s safe enough, that it won’t take her very long to track him down. And she doesn’t want anyone to know that he took off again, send security out to look for him. 

“He’ll be okay,” she tries again. “I’m sure he’ll turn up soon.” 

The nurse gives her a disapproving look, clearly thinks she should be panicked for their PTSD darling. Quinn’s got all the female staff wrapped around his little finger despite his sullenness, explosive anger. And, accordingly, they all seem to dislike her, think she’s too hard on him because he flips out on her regularly, pretends to hate her guts. 

The thing is, Carrie knows that this really the best thing that could have happened. His drive is still there, enough to create a ammonium nitrate smoke bomb, engineer this escape. She wonders if he really wants to get away, or if it’s just a test of his ability, something to stave off the boredom. 

The nurse walks away, still wearing the look of disapproval. Which gives Carrie the chance to start making her way after Quinn, without anyone noticing. 

She takes the stairs down to the exit, pushes her way through the throngs of patients and staff outside the main doors. Shakes her head and smiles to herself again as she looks at the situation he’s caused. 

Always the shit-disturber, she thinks with a grin. 

Once she’s free of the crowd Carrie tries to think like Quinn. Where would he go with his hard won freedom? Somewhere anonymous, but with purpose, meaning. 

The answer is so obvious, she wonders if it’s too easy. If he will have realized where she would look, if he’s avoided it exactly because of that. Or if he will go there anyways, part of him wanting to be found. 

*

The train station is busy but she spots him right away. He’s managed to cover up his hospital clothes with a dark coat, sits alone in the far corner of the waiting area. 

His eyes flick between the wall of departure times and the endless swarm of travelers walking through. Carrie watches for a moment from behind a beam, wonders what he’s thinking about. 

The draw of the train station was almost too obvious. Both the opportunity for escape, the tie to what happened. Though she’s never told him exactly what occurred at the Berlin Hauptbahnhof, chasing Bibi and Qasim through the tunnels. Just that the attack was supposed to be there, that it didn’t go off as planned. 

She had wanted to tell him that he saved her, saved them all by turning Qasim. But he had turned rigid at the mere mention of the sarin plot, fallen into a flashback that left him in pieces. And she had felt like a moron for bringing it up at all, hurting him yet again. So she hadn’t returned to the topic since, afraid of pushing him back into the trauma. 

Carrie steps out from behind the beam. Approaches from behind, yet he doesn’t seem surprised when she sits down beside him. 

“So, you found me. Congratulations,” he says after awhile, gives her a tired look. 

He does that sometimes. Tells her that he does remember, callbacks to their past. 

God. She had been so worried for him then, out on his suicide mission. And yet she’s almost lost him a million times since then too. It was always this way for them, both of them so eager to run, hide. Go solo. 

Carrie looks at him, a smile playing at her lips. He’s pale, sweaty. Looks exhausted but determined. She resists the temptation to put her hand to his brow, instead just sits back, leans up against him. 

She can tell he’s surprised by the way he tenses up, as if she’s just put a live bomb on his shoulder. And the look he gives her says what the fuck, Carrie. 

It’s perfect. So very Quinn. 

“God, I’ve missed you,” she says, out of nowhere. It just slips out, wasn’t even a thought. 

Quinn frowns, looks at her, looks away. 

“This is not me,” he finally says, in a low mutter.

She lifts her head off his shoulder, looks at him in mild disbelief. 

“You just smoked out the hospital with ammonium nitrate to jump on a fucking train. This is definitely you, Quinn,” she replies, rolling her eyes. 

Even he can’t quite argue with that, gives her a half hearted fuck you look. 

“And not to mention ditching on me again, which I’m sure is some fucked up noble bullshit in your head about saving me from giving a shit about you,” Carrie adds. Finds that she’s on a roll now, is going to give it to him until he gives in. 

“But it’s just you,” she continues. “Then, now. Always trying to fucking look out for me. Why can’t I look out for you? Because I fucked it up? Because I lost you and you fucking died? Then fine, yes. I deserve it. Are you really that mad at me? Do you really want to disappear?” 

She doesn’t quite know where this is all coming from, didn’t mean to let all her own anxieties slip out through her cracks. At first she’d been pleased to see the effort he went to, that he still had it in him. But then on the way to the station she’d realized he might really disappear on her, that she wouldn’t be able to stop him if that was his intention. 

So Carrie was a little worked up, anxious. And now he’s here, looks like he was going to go through with it. Which makes her nervous, upset, unable to contain her endless worry.

She hasn’t said anything like this to him since he woke up, hasn’t flipped her shit once even after all the anger he’s poured out on her. But if he’s strong enough to choose to leave forever, he can hear it all, she figures. And she’s going to make him fucking tell her, so at least she knows. That she lost him because she fucked it up, didn’t take care of what she had. 

“Talk to me, Quinn. I fucking miss talking to you,” 

Quinn stares at her, evidently surprised at her outburst. His eyes darken, she can see him process her words, think things through. 

That surly thoughtful thing he always had going on is just accentuated by his recovering neurons, his slower patterns. And for a second she thinks how good he looks, even in hospital scrubs, scruffy hair. Then she remembers she almost lost him. Was so fucking close. 

It’s always this way around him. The vacillating emotions, straight joy to anger to fear. And she can’t even imagine what it’s like for him. Severe PTSD, on top of all that hidden fear and defensiveness. Never having anyone, never feeling loved. 

She’s lost in her own guilt traps, didn’t mean to lose it at him, to give in to her fear. But she has nightmares all the time now, of him disappearing again, various ones of the gas chamber too. 

“Carrie, we never talked,” Quinn says, interrupts her mental spiral, guilt cycle. 

“Yeah, well a whole fucking lot of good that did us,” she replies. 

“What do you want me to say?” he asks with a sigh. 

“Tell me you’re really going to take off again. Or why you can’t fucking let me care about you. Or that you’re just as scared as I am, that we’re going to fuck it all up again,” she replies, without really thinking. There are a million things she wants him to tell her. But she’ll settle for anything. 

Quinn is characteristically quiet, hopefully formulating a response. She wonders what she will do if he’s determined to leave, knows she won’t have much choice in the matter. He’s a resourceful fucker, even now. What if he’s really too broken, too afraid of getting hurt? She wants to hang onto him tight, tell him he can learn to be loved. That maybe she can too. 

But instead she just looks at him anxiously, waits for whatever he’s got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> partiii q pov coming up for Christmas Day...


	8. ch3partiii

Carrie’s yelling at him, loud enough that the German travelers around them are moving away, pretending not to watch the scene. 

It’s classic Carrie, all fired up, hammering him with questions. None of the softness she gives him at the hospital. Well, not until the end, when she tells him she’s missed talking to him. 

Quinn tells her they never talked, which is mostly true. A couple times in Islamabad, but she was so fucked up then. Before that, she was so guarded, caught up in Brody. 

And he can’t exactly change that now. Tell her all his conflicted feelings for her. Remorse, anger, love, fear. He’s so fucked up emotionally since waking up he can barely contain it all, much less expose her to it. 

So he asks her what she wants him to say, really just to stall for time. But then he’s surprised with what she says, that she manages to nail it so perfectly. 

“Tell me you’re really going to take off again. Or why you can’t fucking let me care about you. Or that you’re just as scared as I am, that I’m going to fuck it all up again,” she says.

He’s not sure if he hates it or loves it. That she’s right on every level, that she’s calling him on his bullshit. These are exactly the questions that need to be answered, why he’s still sitting at the train station. 

It’s always been hard to let anyone care for him. That came from a life of self-reliance, self-defense. The fear of a foster kid. Let no one in and no one can hurt you. 

But then you meet her. And you want to let her know you. But you don’t know how so you run. 

Story of his life. Right up to this current moment. 

He thinks about not answering, trying to infuriate her more. Or manning up, telling her yeah, Carrie, get over it, I’m going to fucking disappear. Never see you again, because I don’t fucking need you. 

Or shifting blame, putting this all back on her like he always does. Tell her that yes, she keeps fucking it all up, that’s why he keeps pushing her away. Which is not true at all, but being angry all the time makes it so easy. He’s angry at himself for surviving, angry at her for caring. So he’ll say anything to piss her off, get some space. 

All of those options, not one involves honesty. 

He looks at Carrie, feels the scrutiny of her glare. She’s somewhere between pissed off and scared, scanning him for any response. 

He thinks about why he pushes her away. Because he doesn’t deserve it, especially not after he fucked everything up, ended up a mental case with a defective body. This, he should suffer alone. Not drag anyone else into it. Especially not her. 

That’s why disappearing had such appeal. His old tactic, still the safest choice. 

Carrie is still glaring at him, he feels the pressure of her stare. He is going to have to say something. 

“I fucked it up. I should have died. And you should be home. Safe, with Frannie,” he finally says. It’s as simple as he can make it, what’s been bothering him all this time. 

“And so you’re just going to take off, make me look for you, wonder about you the rest of my life? Raise my daughter with a fucking broken heart?” Carrie asks, eyes on fire. 

“You’ll get over it,” he sighs, knows that’s the truth. Right now she’s emotional, fueled by guilt. It won’t last, she’ll get on with her life. 

Carrie looks at him incredulously. Like he’s said something extremely stupid, instead of a simple fact, an obvious truth. 

“Jesus Quinn. You were always there for me, when I needed you. Even when you didn’t want to be. And then you fucking ran off without a word, left me looking for you for two years. And then you show up. Save my fucking life. Get shot. Run off dying. Try to kill yourself,” she says sharply. “And then I watched you die. I knew it was my fault. I let you go, I wasn’t there for you. All I could do was pray for another chance. To take care of you, the way you took care of me.”

It’s startling to hear her say it, acknowledge what he did for her all those years. He remembers being so fucking worried, pathetically heartsick every time she disappeared, when she was in the hospital. Before he fully admitted to himself how he felt. 

And then there was the shit show in Islamabad. The trauma infused aftermath. Of course by then he knew how deep he’d fallen in, was fucking scared by it. So he ran, to save them both from their mutual fear. Never really allowed himself to wonder how she felt about it. Just shut it out, like he always did. 

By the time she told him in Berlin, it didn’t matter anymore. He’d come to terms with his decision, had expected to be rid of her within the day. He hadn’t wanted to hear her then. Doesn’t really want to hear it now. 

But he does. For the first time he thinks about it from Carrie’s side. How she refused to leave him in Berlin, even brought her good boy Jonas in to help. How he had let her hold him, blamed it on the morphine. Even then, as emotionally hardened as he ever was, he had wanted it. 

He ran to save her. Honestly was so far gone at that point that he didn’t think she would really be all that upset. It was so clear to him by then that he was totally lost, done for both literally and figuratively. 

And then. Everything after. He had thought about her of course. Right to the very end, in fact. Apologized silently for his mistakes, telling her it had nothing to do with her. 

This is the first time he’s remembering this. He has enough flashbacks of what happened, tries to resist thinking about it as much as possible. 

Since he awoke, he’s told himself he doesn’t merit anything. Not after how he fucked up. 

And now. He’s been telling himself he doesn’t want it for so long that it’s become habit, almost the truth. The emotional backlash of allowing himself any comfort from her is just too harsh - endless self-berating, feelings of low worth. The ever present sense that he doesn’t deserve it, especially now. 

But, sitting her listening to her, Quinn realizes that the real question is, what does she deserve? Someone that can love her properly, a happy life with her daughter. Some personal peace, a chance to atone. 

He had thought that Carrie was only still there because he took off on her, almost died as a result. Had convinced himself of it, because it fit what he wanted to believe. 

But she’s forcing him to remember. That she came for him in Islamabad, when she should have been home, mourning her father. That she’d tried to find him after that, had taken care of him in Berlin. 

He tells himself he’s not the same person, that she’s holding onto a ghost. But he knows it’s not true. 

He still loves her, will do anything for her. Including push her away, try to get her to move on. Because if he couldn’t offer her anything before, he certainly can’t now. 

But she’s never been one to do what’s good for her. And she doesn’t let things go, no matter the personal cost. 

So, the standoff. 

Quinn exhales irritably. His emotions are flaring, as they always do with Carrie around.

“I know you’re trying so hard,” she says with a sad smile. “To take care of me, like you always did. But all I want is a chance to take care of you. So if you really want what’s best for me, let me do this for you.” 

He still has a hard time believing her. But she’s looking at him so intently, obviously worried that he’s going to tell her to fuck off, that he doesn’t need her. Like he always does lately. 

And usually he does it because it fuels his low self-worth, adds to the darkness. But this time he can’t do it to her, not after all she’s just said. 

Still. He doesn’t know what to say, what to do. He can’t accept her comfort without feeling pathetic. Can’t reject it without hurting her, adding to his own self-hate. It’s why he just wishes he hadn’t survived, didn’t have to deal with any of this. 

“I shouldn’t even be here,” he mutters in frustration. “Fucking atropine.” 

Carrie frowns, sighs sadly. He knows she hates hearing it. But it’s the truth, what’s constantly on his mind. And it shuts her up for the moment, gives him a little space to breathe. 

But then she takes a breath, and he can feel the space between them tighten. 

“I never told you,” she says. “But he saved us both.” 

Quinn frowns, isn’t quite sure what she means. 

“I was in the tunnel. With Bibi and Qasim,” she says with a sigh. 

It takes him a moment just to take in what she’s saying. He has tried to not think about the jihadis, everything that went wrong. It makes him panic, forget to breathe. So she’s careful not to talk about it around him, because he’s a fragile nut job now, unable to handle anything.

She never told him the details of what happened, just that Qasim stopped Bibi at the train station and both were dead. But he knew there was something more, mostly because there is always something more when it comes to Carrie. 

He’s not sure if he’s ready for it now. Then realizes she’s going to tell him anyways, isn’t going to pull any punches. 

“I would have been first in line if Qasim hadn’t stopped Bibi,” Carrie states matter of factly. “He was there because you turned him.” 

He hadn’t really thought it about it that way before. Mostly because he hadn’t been thinking about it at all. Even now he can feel his heart rate rising, a tightness in his chest. 

And yet he hears what she’s saying. His miserable survival was the payment for saving thousands of lives. And one of those lives was hers. 

All of a sudden he is acutely aware that they are at a train station, can picture Carrie running into the tunnel, right towards a gas attack. She’s on her own as always, risking everything. 

And then he can feel the gas, the sense of constriction. It’s odorless but he knows it’s there, seeping through the ceiling, pushing in on his senses. 

Quinn’s heart begins to race, there is an intense squeezing in his chest. He can’t get air in, each ragged breath quicker than the next. 

It is all too much. Fear, total panic covers him, drips out of every pore. He closes his eyes, tries to shut it out. But the feeling of gas is in him now. And he still sees her running into the dark, falling and choking. Dying in front of him, while he’s incapacitated, can’t move, or even breathe. 

It’s the worst flashback yet, he can feel the terror of reliving it completely seize him. It overwhelms his senses, his capacity to cope. He can’t think, much less react, do anything except hyperventilate, close his eyes and pray for it to end. 

At first he doesn’t even feel her, her hands on his shoulders, holding him together. But then he finds himself tucked into her chest, an anxiety pill dissolving in his mouth. 

He’s embarrassed to feel the streaks on his face, wipes them away as he tries to unclench his body, detach himself from Carrie. 

But she won’t let him go, holds him tight against her. She’s standing in front of him, his head in her chest, her arms wrapped around his back. 

“Shit, I’m sorry, Quinn,” she mutters in his ear. “I’m a fucking idiot. I shouldn’t have said anything.” 

The panic is starting to recede, the meds kicking in quickly. His heart beat no longer thunders in his ears and he remembers to breathe, focus on slowing it down. 

It’s fucking pathetic, losing it like that. Terrifying too, to be so out of control. But he hates being babied, not being told shit. 

Of course she was there. First in line. It’s almost a given with her. 

He thinks about what she said. That Qasim saved them both. 

He’s resented it so much. Being alive. 

But it saved her. So many others too. 

And he is thankful for that. Even if this was the cost. 

He would be so upset to lose her. It would really be the end. Yet it’s what he’s been striving for this whole time. 

He looks at her now, sees how drawn she is. In fact, Carrie looks devastated, like she just watched him die again. 

And then he suddenly realizes that she did. That him choking, not breathing, seizing in front of her is what she watched, probably dozens of times. Not that she’s ever told him. But he knows, can see it in the way she looks at him now. 

He thinks about watching her die. Even once.

Just imagining it had set him into total panic. Enough to let her hold him, let her reassure him with her presence. In public, no less.

Again he thinks about what she said. Qasim saved them both. There wouldn’t have been the one without the other. 

And she’s suffered so much. Silently, because he refuses to talk to her, pushes against her at every turn. After she watched him die, prayed desperately for his survival.

He’s an unappreciative bastard. Has been hurting her this whole time because he’s too afraid to face his demons, wallowing in self-hatred. Trying to tell her what she wants, refusing to listen to her. 

He knows by now that she isn’t going to leave. Still tells himself it’s just guilt. Because he’s scared to death of the other possibility. 

That he lets his guard down, lets her in. And she sees how fucked up he is, gets tired of playing nursemaid. 

He doesn’t even know how to do it if he wanted to. Is so fucking tied up in his insecurities, uncontrollable emotions. 

But he really upset her this time, and of course she thinks it’s her fault. 

And as much as he likes hurting himself by pushing her away, he knows that’s all about him. Satisfying his own fucked up needs. Penance, self-denial. 

He’s been telling himself it’s about her. That’s it’s for her own good, that she shouldn’t care. 

But then she tells him shit like this. That she would have died. 

Holds him like she’ll never let go, calms him when he’s completely gone. 

He fucking loves her so much. Maybe even enough to let her care for him. At least for the moment. 

He feels weak from the panic, guilty because she thinks it’s her fault. When it’s really all on him. The attempt at disappearing, rejecting everything she’s tried. She wouldn’t be crying right now if he wasn’t such an asshole, if he could just face his fears. 

“None of this is your fault,” he mutters. “I did this to myself.” 

“Let’s not argue about blame,” she replies tearily. “I’m just so glad you’re still here.” 

He always did want to make her happy. And if he can do it just by being alive, well maybe he can let himself believe that. At least sometimes. 

Because he doesn’t want to upset her anymore. Not right now anyhow. He fucking loves her. Maybe even enough to give in for a moment.

She’s still holding him so tightly he can feel her heart hammering through his head. And he thinks fuck. It’s now or never. 

He pulls away just a bit, enough to be able to look up at her. She’s just a bit weepy, obviously trying to keep hold her emotions back. 

“I’m sorry I’m like this,” he mumbles. Doesn’t know what else to say. 

“You were always like this,” she replies with a frown. “It’s what I love about you.” 

She’s never said anything like this to him, probably because he loses his shit when she even tells him she cares. Looks at him with open honesty, bravely wearing a half smile. 

And at first he looks away, bites down hard on his fear, denial. 

But then he turns back toward her. Makes himself look up, face her full on. 

Doesn’t resist when she offers her hand to him, pulls him to his feet. Lets her grip his hand tightly, steady his steps as they walk away from the station. 

It’s not much, he thinks. Not a lot to give. 

He was always willing to do anything for her. Maybe even let himself be loved.


	9. ch4parti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all of this was written way before the early release of 6.1 but based on a s6 spoiler on where q ends up.

As usual, he wakes up in the dark shaking and flailing, silent tears starting to form. Clenches himself into a ball, huddles against the endless fear, the sense of never being safe. Every night he has some version of the dream, every night it’s just as real. 

This time he’s so shut down, stuck in between his night horrors and his dismal reality that he doesn’t realize she’s there. Not until he feels her hand warm against his back, that pattern she makes with her thumb when she’s worried about him. 

He resisted this for so long. Couldn’t stand her touch, how pathetic it made him feel. Dirty, undeserving.

That was before she found him at the train station, pleaded with him to let her care for him. Was so honest with him, it actually got through. 

Not that he gave in completely, that would have been too much. The depth of care she gives him is overwhelming for just a few minutes, too much to bear after a life of fending for himself. 

But then he’d awoken one night in a state of total panic, gasping for breath, feeling the sarin, sure that he was in the chamber again. On the floor, choking on his own puke. 

Not that it had been all so different than any other night, just a little more intense than usual. 

Except that night Carrie was there for some reason. She does that sometimes, can’t sleep, comes to see him. And that night she had woken to him babbling for help, shaking to his core. 

She had done it then, just like now. Put her hand on his back, nervously moved her thumb around like she wasn’t sure what she should be doing. He had been too far gone to resist her at all, stuck in that space between realities. But as he had come back to himself, there was a moment of insight, an unlikely realization.

Her hand, warm against his skin. It made him feel safe. Ironic in so many ways. She had always meant so many things to him. But safety was not one of them. The opposite in fact. She was danger to the extreme. 

So that’s how he first learned it. That there was a way out of the constant anxiety, fear. Not that he allowed it much, he hadn’t lost that much self-dignity yet. But it’s harder when he wakes to it, when it’s the only thing that soothes him. 

Like right now. She rubs his back silently, slowly. And gradually he stops shaking, feels the panic seep out of his chest. 

It’s so strange to feel taken care of, something he’s never known. He was always the capable one, ready for anything. He was supposed to protect her, not the other way around. But now he’s broken, useless. And sometimes it feels good to know she will never let anyone hurt him again.

Because, of course, Carrie is relentless, undeniable about him now. How she always is with a mission. And now her mission is him. Yet he still struggles with how it makes him feel, his ego torn in two. That she cares enough to stay, fight through all the bullshit he puts her through. It’s all great until he remembers that it’s because he’s a fucking invalid headcase, that she’s buried in guilt. 

Right now, though, he’s content to feel her presence, has been trying to push back against the self-recrimination. He keeps pushing and she refuses to leave. So he allows himself a few of these moments, a break from the overwhelming anxiety. 

She’s still rubbing his back gently and he’s just about done shaking when her phone emits a familiar jingle. It’s her skype, the jingle that makes her smile. But today he hears her pull it out and sigh a little, then turn off the ringer. She doesn’t stop making patterns but they become a little quicker and he knows she’s thinking about Frannie, missing her daughter. 

Quinn feels himself tense up immediately, instantly on edge. Fuck, he thinks. A too-perfect reminder of why he can’t do this. Take this from her. 

She has a kid to care for - should not be here, dealing with his bullshit. He can’t let her do this any longer, knowing what it costs her to be away from her daughter. No matter that she’s the only one that can bring him some comfort, his little oasis of safety. He’s a grown ass man, that fucked things up for himself. Her kid is four, needs her mom. 

And if Carrie refused to make that choice, well. He would have to make it for her. 

He has been close to this for a long time now, has tried to make her leave in so many ways. Almost escaped himself, more than once. But always he let her pull him back. 

Now though, he knows it’s time. He’s stronger now, going to survive despite his deficits, ongoing physical and mental issues. And still she shows no signs of leaving, going back to her life. 

He can’t do it anymore. Keep her away from her daughter, hijack the love and caring meant for a four year old. He’s known this for so long. And now he has to act.

Though he’s not entirely sure how he will do it, Quinn figures he will find a way soon enough. He’s still capable, calculated, despite his other difficulties. And it’s time to start being a man again, suck it up and let her go.

Quinn exhales, Carrie’s hand still worrying against his back. His decision made, he lets himself enjoy the sensation, of being safe, protected. Soon he’ll be back on his own, as it was meant to be. But for now, he remembers how much he fucking loves her. Lets her care for him; the way he once imagined possible. 

*

As fate would have it, an opportunity presents itself instantly. The next day he’s told by the head nurse, they’re moving him back stateside. New York, to a veterans hospital for further rehab therapies. 

The transfer is in two days time, must have been arranged through the agency because Carrie hadn’t said anything about it yet. 

Which meant she didn’t know. And it wouldn’t be very hard to arrange it so no one else tells her. 

Quinn thinks about how pissed off she will be, that she will likely go storming to the agency, threaten lives. He imagines Dar Adal, scowling as he continues to clean up the mess left by his former golden boy. Dar won’t tell her though, will be so pleased to have won in the end. 

Dar. His only real father figure. Quinn doesn’t know how to feel about his past, about anything anymore really. When he overheard the nurses talking about how long he had been in the coma, how everyone thought he’d be a vegetable forever, he had wondered why Dar hadn’t made the call. A pillow in the night, a little additive to his saline drip. Make sure to finish the job, especially with your own, those that know your secrets. 

And yet he hadn’t wondered very long. Even now Quinn remembers the moment of awareness so clearly. 

The envelope. His words. It would have ended up with Dar. 

In a way Quinn was still surprised, that Adal would accede his right to make the decision. Dar had absolutely despised Carrie, fought desperately against her influence on his best operative. 

And yet Quinn knows that Carrie was the last one standing. That she sat by his bedside for days, weeks, months. He can sometimes feel a weight in her even now, some deep seated guilt she can’t shake. He recognizes it because he carries it too. 

He catches the look when she thinks he’s not paying attention, sometimes when they’re having a good moment. It says I almost gave up on you, in a mix of guilt and thankfulness. 

There’s that part of him that continuously tells him she should have done it, that it would have been best for both of them. That he gave up on her when he took off for Syria, that he deserved nothing but that in return. 

That life wasn’t worth living when he was mentally, physically whole. Certainly isn’t now. 

And yet. He knows it would have broken her, no matter how he tries to convince himself otherwise. Carrie is more sincere, real than she’s ever been with him. So honest with her own guilt, her attempts to atone for her self-declared mistakes. She is already hurting so badly from everything, all this strife between them on the end of having her life threatened, losing her relationship, being away from her kid. At least she doesn’t have to carry his death around with her too, think it was on her.

It’s pretty pathetic. Being glad to survive only for her sake. To constantly feel that the only person on the planet that cares about you is only doing it out of guilt, should leave you to your misery. 

It’s been a hard road, steps both forward and back. Even after she found him at the train station and he let her take him back. When she used that word, the one he’s trying so hard to avoid thinking about, feeling. Convinced him for a brief moment to let her care. For her sake of course. 

He can only take so much of all that she tries to give him. And he can see her try to pull back, tread so carefully. She’s so fucking gentle with him, like he could lose it at any point. Which is the truth, he just doesn’t like it. He prefers angry Carrie, volatile and harsh. It’s easier that way, satisfying to push back against her.

And now. New York. A chance to end it. 

So he tells all the staff at the hospital that Carrie is no longer authorized for updates on his treatment. Which makes the nurses smile at him warmly, a knowing look in their eyes. 

He knows they judge her, plays to it sometimes. They all treat him like a war hero, their fragile darling. All his brooding determination, his darkly stoic charm - it attracts them all, puts them firmly on his side. Especially when they see the fights, the anger he throws at her. Quinn knows they misinterpret it all, that they think Carrie is the bad guy, that he’s legitimately furious with her because of things she’s done. That she’s just trying to make up for unforgivable mistakes, clings on despite his obvious hatred of her. 

That’s the part that makes him feel like shit. Letting the staff think so badly of her, seeing the looks they give her. Pandering to their sympathy, helping cast Carrie as a pseudo-stalker.

Because he knows she means well, really does care. Has always meant well, even in her worst moments. She is stubborn, relentless in her goals. Even when stymied at every turn, when anyone else would have given up. 

It’s much of what he loved about her, way back when it could have mattered. But he can’t take it when applied to him, not when he’s determined to fail. 

So he tells them not to tell her. Sees this as his final exam. A chance to break free.

*

Two days. Sleepless, full of anxiety. 

It shouldn’t be so hard to let her go. But Quinn feels bad having deceived her, even if it’s for her own good. 

Even these last two days, he’s oscillated between needing her and letting her go. Considered telling her. Anxious about being without her, being totally alone.

He knows he’s not going to do well. Can barely hold it together even with her support. 

But then he remembers why it has to be. She should be home, with her kid. Not dealing with his constant mood swings, chronic pain, seizures, the endless moments when he hates it, hates his body, his failings. The endless PT for what? So he can walk, talk, think deficiently forever; have nothing left of the only life he ever knew. 

It’s so easy to fall back into that - the hate, the self-pity. To think that she’s only there due to guilt. What else does he offer other than a sullen pissed off companion who is barely mobile, always on edge, unable to think or even feel clearly? 

It’s not a choice he can let her make. Especially not at the cost of spending time with her daughter, getting on with her life. 

So he managed to hold back the info, made sure the staff kept to their word. Had a silent goodbye with Carrie the previous night, then resigned himself to leaving her for good.

He tells himself it will feel good to be free. Out from under her ever-concerned eye. It’s hard to be so cared for when you’ve never considered yourself worth caring for. He thinks he liked her at first because she didn’t give a shit about him, didn’t seem to think he had emotions. Which was fairly true at that time. For a long time. 

Since then though. The emotions are rampant. And he’s so easily overcome. 

Anger. Fear. Disgust. Hate. 

Love. 

He is a disaster when she’s around, always has been. And now it has to end. 

Quinn tries not to think about the other part. How it will be, on his own again. But the thought is there, difficult to avoid. 

There will be nothing left holding him to the earth anymore. He’ll be free to end it if he wants, do whatever it takes to fall into the abyss. 

Even with Carrie around it’s hard to cling to any meaning in his life. Without her he will plunge easily, sink straight to the bottom. 

So he’s setting her free. 

He thinks he should feel more pleased with himself, that he’s managed to keep this key piece of info away from her keen investigative senses. But in reality Quinn is anxious, a bit unsure. 

The nurse comes in, helps him into a wheelchair. Says something cheery about this being a big day, that they’re sad to see him go. 

Quinn doesn’t reply, feels his chest tighten in anticipation, his head start to pound.

He knows this feeling. When it’s go time but you’re not mentally ready. It usually means something bad is about to happen, an intuition about the mission status. 

This time he recognizes it as fear, the panic that’s always so close to the surface. He tries to convince himself that it’s just the change in circumstances, facing the unknown. 

But he knows it’s not that this time. New York, the vet hospital, it will be much like this. Nothing to worry about really, basically the same shit in a different location. 

The only difference will be her absence, the choice he’s making for her. 

The nurse pushes him through the corridors, staff coming out from different rooms to say bye to him. And all he can think is that he never got to really tell her goodbye, how much she fucking means to him. 

The flaw in the plan, but also the key component. 

The night before he’d done his best to keep things light, end things with a nice moment. Just has to hope that she remembers the few good times, not all the bullshit he’s put her through, all his outbursts of anger.

And he had silently said his goodbyes, a few times through the night. Stolen glances at her, mental snapshots of what she still means to him. 

He had caught her looking at him suspiciously more than once, could tell she thought something was up. But thankfully she hadn’t figured it out, hadn’t confronted him about anything.

Because he would never have been able to let her go, not if she were there. She would be fighting him on it at every turn, would never let him fade away. And he’d never been able to tell her no. 

So this was his only way out, his only way to save her from a life of pity, hopelessness, traumatic stress. He can’t be the man he wants to be for her, couldn’t do it even before he was crippled, mentally unstable. 

And so he’s giving her a choice, an easy out. To go home to Frannie, find her own way. Live the life she deserves, without the burden of guilt. 

It’s the only choice he could make, the only one that he can live with. 

Yet, as he’s rolled onto the medical transfer jet, Quinn can’t help but picture Carrie finding out, flipping her shit. He hopes she’s mad enough at him that she doesn’t even try to find him. But he also hopes she understands why he had to do it, that he doesn’t mean to hurt her. 

He knows he’s doing the right thing for them both. She will go home, get on with her life. And he can fall, without a safety net, doesn’t have to worry about upsetting her anymore.


	10. ch4partii

She’s come to expect it now. It’s her own fault really. 

But that night Carrie had been lost in thought, her mind still with Frannie after just skyping with her. So when she’s hit in the left bicep with a projectile immediately upon entering, she’s startled, looks up in surprise. 

Quinn’s in his bed, the nerf gun still incriminatingly gripped in his hand. But instead of his usual irritated look, he appears slightly pleased with himself, raises his eyebrows in silent comment. 

It takes her a moment to figure it out, and then she glances her fingers over the spot he had hit with the nerf bullet. 

So that’s what he’s been aiming at ever since she brought him the foam contraband, Carrie thinks. 

She had bought him the gun on impulse, had seen it and immediately known it was perfect. To make him work on his fine motor skills, rewire the pathways in his brain. And really, because a gun is an extension of Quinn. 

It was a bit of a risk, she knew. To remind him of his old capabilities, what he’s lost. All the bad memories of his time in special ops. But he’s gained so much too, through all his reluctant hard work in physical therapy. And she was sure he would like it. 

He had actually grinned when she presented it to him, had let her help load it up with his shaky hands. And then, despite fighting the tremors, he had nailed her with a head shot, first try. 

Since then he fires at her anytime she enters. Hits her solidly every time yet still looks disappointed in himself. Until now. 

She rubs at the spot again. Can feel the scar tissue even now. 

“Nice shot,” she says, a smile playing at her lips. 

Quinn puts down the gun, now looks thoughtful, serious. His mood can shift so quickly now, it’s hard to know what to expect. But she knows that right now he’s working out what to say, has learned to be patient with him as he finds his words. 

“Bad memories,” he finally says with a sigh. 

Carrie thinks back, at the chaos that had been going on back then. She had been so fixated on Brody, on clearing his name. And that had led to all the crazy shit with Javadi, sending Brody off to die. 

She remembers Quinn, waiting for her on that bench. Trying to talk to her in the elevator. She had been so pissed off at him. More for looking at her records, finding out her secret, acting all concerned, than for shooting her. That had been inevitable, necessary even. She had known it even as she walked towards the motel. But at least it had been him. 

Carrie huffs a laugh, sighs too. 

“Fuck, Quinn,” she mutters. “All our memories are bad.” 

“But I’m glad you’re the one who took the shot.” 

Quinn looks surprised, tilts his head to ask if she’s serious. 

“You were the only one there I trusted,” she adds. It’s strange to think about those days, all the stuff she’s tried to put away. How Quinn had shown up in her life out of nowhere, slowly earned her respect despite her initial suspicions. 

Mr black ops, masquerading as a desk jockey vanilla analyst. Laughable really.

She smiles at the memory and Quinn looks at her questioningly. 

“And a pretty good shot for an analyst,” she says with a smirk. “Mouthy too.” 

She’s not sure what he remembers of the past, but mostly his long term memory seems to be intact. They just don’t talk much really, never have. And certainly not about the past, all the shit they went through together, put each other through.

Quinn slips a grin at that, and she’s once again thankful for every moment she has with him now. It’s what made all the hard days bearable, all the arguments, his determination to not be cared about. She had come so close to losing him, even his most frustrating traits are somewhat endearing to her now. Still annoying as fuck. But so Quinn. 

And it’s been better lately. Ever since she brought him back from the train station, he had been a little more forgiving with himself. A little more accepting of her care. Not that it’s all smooth sailing. He’s still mostly obstinate, there’s just a few more nice moments between them. Like this one. 

She sits by him, on his bed. It’s the position she takes when he’s relaxed, open. Notices he’s still glancing at her arm, at the barely noticeable scar. 

His fingers go to it slowly, his thumb cold against her skin. He rarely initiates touch with her anymore, it’s always her hands all over him. And she thinks they’re both surprised, caught in a moment. 

Quinn snaps to, seems to realize what he’s been doing. Takes his hand away, looks a bit chagrinned. 

There’s something else in the look too, something she can’t quite pin down. She’s seen it in him the last couple days. A sort of wistfulness that only shows up when he think she’s not looking. 

But she knows better than to ask, especially because he’s been mostly in good mood for the same about of time. More settled too. 

Carrie hopes it’s just part of him giving up, letting her in. But still her intuition is telling her something’s up, that she should question him about it. 

Especially when he works his arm around her, tugs on her to lean into him. 

“It was the hardest shot I ever took,” he says, his voice gruff from disuse. 

This is not like them at all. Talking about this, even in those few words. Again she questions what’s brought it on, but then she finds she doesn’t care. She’s tucked up against Quinn, wondering at how close they’ve become, remembering how they were. 

Always at odds. But still, they stuck together. 

“You don’t have to be the shooter anymore,” she mutters into his hair. Kisses the top of his head softly, without even thinking about it.

Quinn seems to relax at that, and she thinks how fiercely she will protect him from now on. Make up for all the times she took him for granted. 

“So who’s going to shoot. You?” he asks, surprising her by not pulling back at her little affection. 

She huffs a laugh, nudges him a bit. 

“I shot you,” she replies, a little smartly. 

He laughs at that, shakes his head. 

“I forgot about that,” he says, almost to himself.

She had too. God, that seems like so long ago now. Jonas, going off her pills. Feeling hunted by everyone. 

And of all the people on the planet, they sent Quinn to kill her. 

It could only happen to them. 

“Yeah, well. A lot’s happened since then,” she mutters. 

She hasn’t said much about any of it, especially not since she triggered him into a PTSD attack at the train station by talking about what happened. And she can’t talk about almost losing him so many times. Not without remembering him in her arms, bleeding out, septic. Then in that chamber. Every moment of that video. Finding him. And everything after. 

It’s her own fucking PTSD kicking in, that inordinate fear that she’s going to lose him again. For real this time. 

But right now he’s right here, solid and warm as she leans up against him, her head resting on top of his. And it’s better to think about this, about hope. For him and for her.

So she stops thinking about the million ways she almost lost him, the images that haunt her nights. Remembers Quinn as he always was. Hard, with those jagged edges. And yet he was always so good to her, protected her as best he could. 

Taking that shot. Running off dying. 

Now it’s her turn. He’s all bravado, frail ego. Pretends he’s not suffering from severe PTSD, that he can take care of himself. It’s still him trying to protect her. 

But she’s done with that. Is not going to let him do this to himself. Whatever he needs, she is not going to let him go. 

Carrie looks over, wonders what Quinn’s thinking, if he caught her little panic attack. 

She catches him giving her a soulful look, again with a hint of something she can’t quite read. Just a memory maybe, a bit of resigned acceptance. 

But again she doesn’t ask, knows he won’t tell her anyways. Is satisfied just to be sitting up late with him, comfortably not talking in that way that they do. 

Instead she kisses him on top of his head softly again. Moments like this she feels so affectionate towards him, is testing what he will allow. 

Quinn sighs at her action but doesn’t shy away. She nudges him in response, and he pulls his arm around her even tighter. 

For a moment it looks like he’s going to say something, she can see it in the way his eyes change colour. But instead he just studies her intently, then sighs again and looks away. 

And again she doesn’t ask, just lets him be. Relishes being curled up against him as his breathing settles and he drifts off to sleep. 

*

Carrie knows something’s wrong before she even gets to his room. Something in the way the staff are all looking at her, a sort of smug knowingness they’re all trying to hide. 

When she enters his room one of the nurses is there but his bed is empty, all made up nicely. And she realizes right away, exactly what happened. 

“He’s gone isn’t he?” Carrie asks, exhales irritably. 

The nurse is wearing that smirk, the one she’s already seen on everyone else. They must have all been in on the secret, Carrie thinks. Fucking Quinn. 

“Yes, he was transferred early this morning,” the nurse says. 

“And I don’t suppose you can tell me where he was transferred to?” Carrie asks, already knowing the answer. 

“No, you aren’t authorized for that information,” the nurse replies snidely. 

Carrie nods, chews on her own lip in frustration. She should have seen this coming, had sensed something up. 

He had been more settled, less anxious. And she had caught him looking at her intently a few times, though he had blamed it on misfiring synapses, said he was zoned out. 

And then there was the previous night, talking with him, remembering. No wonder he had been thinking about their history, had been saying goodbye in his own way. Silently, like the sneaky shit he is. Especially about this kind of thing. Disappearing. 

Carrie looks around, notices the gun is gone. He must have taken it with him, she thinks wryly. His nerf contraband, probably hidden underneath his socks. It makes her grin for a second, but then she sighs, annoyed she hadn’t figured it out earlier. Her intuition is rarely wrong, she had known he was up to something. But she had pulled back from asking, hadn’t wanted to set him off. 

It’s so hard to know with him these days. Her once stoic soldier is now a PTSD patient. Explosive, fragile, but still just as independent, tightly guarded. In a way she’s glad, that he’s still very much himself. Just amplified, less controlled. But he could take care of himself before, in his own solitary fucked up way. Now, he’s still in pieces, yet doesn’t know how to accept help. 

If he really just wanted to be rid of her, that she could accept. After all he went through, how she lost him. She thought it was totally possible he would never want to see her again. 

But it had been so clear that he just didn’t think he deserved it. Her staying, caring for him. He endlessly told her she should be back home, with Frannie. Which just made her more determined to be there for him, make him understand she was there because she loved him. Frannie was with Maggie, getting love from her aunt, her cousins. And she was not going to leave him, especially not now. It makes no difference to her that he’s like this, emotionally and physically decimated. She loves him just the same, maybe more. He’s so fucking dear to her now she doesn’t know how she could let him go. Just move on, live out her life with Frannie, knowing he was still out there somewhere, fending for himself. 

That’s the part he still refuses to get. How much he fucking means to her. 

Carrie sighs again. Sits down and stares at his empty bed. 

He must have been transferred somewhere stateside for extended therapy. She wonders how long he’s known, a couple days by her estimation. 

He is so goddamned frustrating, she thinks wryly. Even mostly incapacitated he can create havoc, disappear. Manipulate the situation from his hospital bed, force her to go home, see her daughter.

That is the silver lining, she supposes. Exactly as he planned. There’s no reason for her to stay in Germany any longer, she can fly out and be home in a day. Hug Frannie close, cry her eyes out to Maggie. 

Goddamn it, she thinks. She is so irritated yet impressed by him. As always. He’s played her perfectly, left her little to go on. There are hundreds of hospitals he could have disappeared to, and she’s more than sure Dar will not be of any help. 

But if he thinks she’s going to let that get in her way, then he’s got another thought coming, Carrie muses. 

He might think he knows what’s best for her, might even truly want to disappear, leave her behind. It’s possible, who he always was. 

Still, she’s not going to make it this easy on him, will not let him walk away without facing her.


	11. ch4partii

She’s come to expect it now. It’s her own fault really. 

But that night Carrie had been lost in thought, her mind still with Frannie after just skyping with her. So when she’s hit in the left bicep with a projectile immediately upon entering, she’s startled, looks up in surprise. 

Quinn’s in his bed, the nerf gun still incriminatingly gripped in his hand. But instead of his usual irritated look, he appears slightly pleased with himself, raises his eyebrows in silent comment. 

It takes her a moment to figure it out, and then she glances her fingers over the spot he had hit with the nerf bullet. 

So that’s what he’s been aiming at ever since she brought him the foam contraband, Carrie thinks. 

She had bought him the gun on impulse, had seen it and immediately known it was perfect. To make him work on his fine motor skills, rewire the pathways in his brain. And really, because a gun is an extension of Quinn. 

It was a bit of a risk, she knew. To remind him of his old capabilities, what he’s lost. All the bad memories of his time in special ops. But he’s gained so much too, through all his reluctant hard work in physical therapy. And she was sure he would like it. 

He had actually grinned when she presented it to him, had let her help load it up with his shaky hands. And then, despite fighting the tremors, he had nailed her with a head shot, first try. 

Since then he fires at her anytime she enters. Hits her solidly every time yet still looks disappointed in himself. Until now. 

She rubs at the spot again. Can feel the scar tissue even now. 

“Nice shot,” she says, a smile playing at her lips. 

Quinn puts down the gun, now looks thoughtful, serious. His mood can shift so quickly now, it’s hard to know what to expect. But she knows that right now he’s working out what to say, has learned to be patient with him as he finds his words. 

“Bad memories,” he finally says with a sigh. 

Carrie thinks back, at the chaos that had been going on back then. She had been so fixated on Brody, on clearing his name. And that had led to all the crazy shit with Javadi, sending Brody off to die. 

She remembers Quinn, waiting for her on that bench. Trying to talk to her in the elevator. She had been so pissed off at him. More for looking at her records, finding out her secret, acting all concerned, than for shooting her. That had been inevitable, necessary even. She had known it even as she walked towards the motel. But at least it had been him. 

Carrie huffs a laugh, sighs too. 

“Fuck, Quinn,” she mutters. “All our memories are bad.” 

“But I’m glad you’re the one who took the shot.” 

Quinn looks surprised, tilts his head to ask if she’s serious. 

“You were the only one there I trusted,” she adds. It’s strange to think about those days, all the stuff she’s tried to put away. How Quinn had shown up in her life out of nowhere, slowly earned her respect despite her initial suspicions. 

Mr black ops, masquerading as a desk jockey vanilla analyst. Laughable really.

She smiles at the memory and Quinn looks at her questioningly. 

“And a pretty good shot for an analyst,” she says with a smirk. “Mouthy too.” 

She’s not sure what he remembers of the past, but mostly his long term memory seems to be intact. They just don’t talk much really, never have. And certainly not about the past, all the shit they went through together, put each other through.

Quinn slips a grin at that, and she’s once again thankful for every moment she has with him now. It’s what made all the hard days bearable, all the arguments, his determination to not be cared about. She had come so close to losing him, even his most frustrating traits are somewhat endearing to her now. Still annoying as fuck. But so Quinn. 

And it’s been better lately. Ever since she brought him back from the train station, he had been a little more forgiving with himself. A little more accepting of her care. Not that it’s all smooth sailing. He’s still mostly obstinate, there’s just a few more nice moments between them. Like this one. 

She sits by him, on his bed. It’s the position she takes when he’s relaxed, open. Notices he’s still glancing at her arm, at the barely noticeable scar. 

His fingers go to it slowly, his thumb cold against her skin. He rarely initiates touch with her anymore, it’s always her hands all over him. And she thinks they’re both surprised, caught in a moment. 

Quinn snaps to, seems to realize what he’s been doing. Takes his hand away, looks a bit chagrinned. 

There’s something else in the look too, something she can’t quite pin down. She’s seen it in him the last couple days. A sort of wistfulness that only shows up when he think she’s not looking. 

But she knows better than to ask, especially because he’s been mostly in good mood for the same about of time. More settled too. 

Carrie hopes it’s just part of him giving up, letting her in. But still her intuition is telling her something’s up, that she should question him about it. 

Especially when he works his arm around her, tugs on her to lean into him. 

“It was the hardest shot I ever took,” he says, his voice gruff from disuse. 

This is not like them at all. Talking about this, even in those few words. Again she questions what’s brought it on, but then she finds she doesn’t care. She’s tucked up against Quinn, wondering at how close they’ve become, remembering how they were. 

Always at odds. But still, they stuck together. 

“You don’t have to be the shooter anymore,” she mutters into his hair. Kisses the top of his head softly, without even thinking about it.

Quinn seems to relax at that, and she thinks how fiercely she will protect him from now on. Make up for all the times she took him for granted. 

“So who’s going to shoot. You?” he asks, surprising her by not pulling back at her little affection. 

She huffs a laugh, nudges him a bit. 

“I shot you,” she replies, a little smartly. 

He laughs at that, shakes his head. 

“I forgot about that,” he says, almost to himself.

She had too. God, that seems like so long ago now. Jonas, going off her pills. Feeling hunted by everyone. 

And of all the people on the planet, they sent Quinn to kill her. 

It could only happen to them. 

“Yeah, well. A lot’s happened since then,” she mutters. 

She hasn’t said much about any of it, especially not since she triggered him into a PTSD attack at the train station by talking about what happened. And she can’t talk about almost losing him so many times. Not without remembering him in her arms, bleeding out, septic. Then in that chamber. Every moment of that video. Finding him. And everything after. 

It’s her own fucking PTSD kicking in, that inordinate fear that she’s going to lose him again. For real this time. 

But right now he’s right here, solid and warm as she leans up against him, her head resting on top of his. And it’s better to think about this, about hope. For him and for her.

So she stops thinking about the million ways she almost lost him, the images that haunt her nights. Remembers Quinn as he always was. Hard, with those jagged edges. And yet he was always so good to her, protected her as best he could. 

Taking that shot. Running off dying. 

Now it’s her turn. He’s all bravado, frail ego. Pretends he’s not suffering from severe PTSD, that he can take care of himself. It’s still him trying to protect her. 

But she’s done with that. Is not going to let him do this to himself. Whatever he needs, she is not going to let him go. 

Carrie looks over, wonders what Quinn’s thinking, if he caught her little panic attack. 

She catches him giving her a soulful look, again with a hint of something she can’t quite read. Just a memory maybe, a bit of resigned acceptance. 

But again she doesn’t ask, knows he won’t tell her anyways. Is satisfied just to be sitting up late with him, comfortably not talking in that way that they do. 

Instead she kisses him on top of his head softly again. Moments like this she feels so affectionate towards him, is testing what he will allow. 

Quinn sighs at her action but doesn’t shy away. She nudges him in response, and he pulls his arm around her even tighter. 

For a moment it looks like he’s going to say something, she can see it in the way his eyes change colour. But instead he just studies her intently, then sighs again and looks away. 

And again she doesn’t ask, just lets him be. Relishes being curled up against him as his breathing settles and he drifts off to sleep. 

*

Carrie knows something’s wrong before she even gets to his room. Something in the way the staff are all looking at her, a sort of smug knowingness they’re all trying to hide. 

When she enters his room one of the nurses is there but his bed is empty, all made up nicely. And she realizes right away, exactly what happened. 

“He’s gone isn’t he?” Carrie asks, exhales irritably. 

The nurse is wearing that smirk, the one she’s already seen on everyone else. They must have all been in on the secret, Carrie thinks. Fucking Quinn. 

“Yes, he was transferred early this morning,” the nurse says. 

“And I don’t suppose you can tell me where he was transferred to?” Carrie asks, already knowing the answer. 

“No, you aren’t authorized for that information,” the nurse replies snidely. 

Carrie nods, chews on her own lip in frustration. She should have seen this coming, had sensed something up. 

He had been more settled, less anxious. And she had caught him looking at her intently a few times, though he had blamed it on misfiring synapses, said he was zoned out. 

And then there was the previous night, talking with him, remembering. No wonder he had been thinking about their history, had been saying goodbye in his own way. Silently, like the sneaky shit he is. Especially about this kind of thing. Disappearing. 

Carrie looks around, notices the gun is gone. He must have taken it with him, she thinks wryly. His nerf contraband, probably hidden underneath his socks. It makes her grin for a second, but then she sighs, annoyed she hadn’t figured it out earlier. Her intuition is rarely wrong, she had known he was up to something. But she had pulled back from asking, hadn’t wanted to set him off. 

It’s so hard to know with him these days. Her once stoic soldier is now a PTSD patient. Explosive, fragile, but still just as independent, tightly guarded. In a way she’s glad, that he’s still very much himself. Just amplified, less controlled. But he could take care of himself before, in his own solitary fucked up way. Now, he’s still in pieces, yet doesn’t know how to accept help. 

If he really just wanted to be rid of her, that she could accept. After all he went through, how she lost him. She thought it was totally possible he would never want to see her again. 

But it had been so clear that he just didn’t think he deserved it. Her staying, caring for him. He endlessly told her she should be back home, with Frannie. Which just made her more determined to be there for him, make him understand she was there because she loved him. Frannie was with Maggie, getting love from her aunt, her cousins. And she was not going to leave him, especially not now. It makes no difference to her that he’s like this, emotionally and physically decimated. She loves him just the same, maybe more. He’s so fucking dear to her now she doesn’t know how she could let him go. Just move on, live out her life with Frannie, knowing he was still out there somewhere, fending for himself. 

That’s the part he still refuses to get. How much he fucking means to her. 

Carrie sighs again. Sits down and stares at his empty bed. 

He must have been transferred somewhere stateside for extended therapy. She wonders how long he’s known, a couple days by her estimation. 

He is so goddamned frustrating, she thinks wryly. Even mostly incapacitated he can create havoc, disappear. Manipulate the situation from his hospital bed, force her to go home, see her daughter.

That is the silver lining, she supposes. Exactly as he planned. There’s no reason for her to stay in Germany any longer, she can fly out and be home in a day. Hug Frannie close, cry her eyes out to Maggie. 

Goddamn it, she thinks. She is so irritated yet impressed by him. As always. He’s played her perfectly, left her little to go on. There are hundreds of hospitals he could have disappeared to, and she’s more than sure Dar will not be of any help. 

But if he thinks she’s going to let that get in her way, then he’s got another thought coming, Carrie muses. 

He might think he knows what’s best for her, might even truly want to disappear, leave her behind. It’s possible, who he always was. 

Still, she’s not going to make it this easy on him, will not let him walk away without facing her.


	12. ch5parti

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> last chapter, in two parts.

It takes a few weeks, calling in a lot of favours. Adal has hidden him well, closed a lot of doors. And yet, she is relentless as always. Has nothing else to focus on, especially while Frannie’s at preschool. 

Through her source she finds out it’s long term, that he will be there until he’s ready for release. But also that things have gotten bad, that he’s in the closed psych ward for severe PTSD. 

Which just means that he’s been less able to hide it. The sleepless nights, the extreme anxiety. Everything she saw at Landstuhl - raging emotions, constant flashbacks.

He had fallen into himself there, to hide his symptoms from the therapists, the doctors. But she knew he couldn’t do it forever, pretend that he was okay. 

Still, it’s hard to think of him in the psych ward, has had too much experience of it herself. He’s both so hard and fragile, not a good combination for a veteran’s mental hospital. She’s sure he’s endured some harsh treatment, has responded with violence. 

Carrie sighs, thinks of him alone, afraid. Acting out, asking to be hurt. She knows how he is, that low self-worth. Worries that he’s really fallen apart, that she could be too late. 

She approaches the hospital, tries to swallow back her worry. About Quinn, about what she’s about to do. All or nothing, she thinks. 

Carrie walks into the hospital, isn’t stopped until she reaches the psychiatric wing. It’s strange to be on the outside, seeking entry. She stops at the nurses station, in front of the secure door. 

“I’m here to see Peter Quinn,” she says to the nurse. 

“There’s no one here by that name,” the nurse replies.

“Whatever name they’ve got him under, I know he’s here,” Carrie replies testily. “And I need to see him.” 

“I’m sorry,” the nurse says. “Visitation hours are over anyways, you’ll have to try back tomorrow.” 

Carrie exhales irritably. The visitation thing is bullshit, she is not going to leave without seeing him. 

“Look,” she states clearly. “I know how this works. You’re not going to get rid of me this easily. He has a right to visitors and I am not leaving until I see him.” 

The nurse looks annoyed, defensive. Starts to say something about her knowing best on patient’s rights when the door is buzzed open by another nurse and Carrie reacts instantly, pushing her way through. 

“Hey wait, you can’t do that!” the nurse hollers. “Security!” 

Carrie figures she doesn’t have much time, needs to find Quinn before security closes in on her. She’s not sure about her plan after that, but she’s sure she’ll manage. 

So she runs down the hall, checks in each room. Doesn’t see any sign of him though, not until she turns a corner, sees a situation going on in the common area. 

From what she can see, two burly security guards are taking down one of the patients while all the others look on. Which explains why she got so far without getting brought down herself. 

For a moment she’s glad the guards are otherwise occupied, is about to continue on her search. Then she realizes exactly what’s going on. 

Quinn is pinned under the guards, moaning, shaking violently. Clearly having a PTSD episode, unable to defend himself. 

“Hey!” she shouts, before she even realizes she’s doing it. “Stop that!” 

Carrie walks right up to them, even as the guards try to holler her away, tell her that it’s not safe. 

“You’re hurting him!” she yells in their faces. “Get off!” 

“He’s a violent patient, ma’am,” the guard growls in her face. “He had a knife. This is none of your business.” 

Carrie walks right up to the man, pushes him off Quinn. The guard is so surprised he falls back, isn’t able to pull Carrie away quick enough.

Quinn is still struggling against the other guard, doesn’t even seem to be aware of what’s going on. Hasn’t noticed her presence even, just continues to thrash against the guard, groaning in pain.

“Hey, hey,” she says, puts her hands around his shaking shoulders. “Quinn, it’s me.” 

He doesn’t respond, continues to convulse. She puts her hand on his back, in the spot that makes him calm down. 

“I’m here,” she says softly. “You’re going to be okay.” 

Quinn moans, clearly in mental anguish. She wonders what he sees, if he’s back on the floor of that gas chamber, being tortured by terrorists. He’s really gone this time, worse than she’s seen. But still, he seems to respond to her touch, isn’t resisting anymore. 

The guards have clearly noticed this as well, have stopped trying to pry her away and actually backed off altogether. 

“I’m here now,” she repeats soothingly. “I’m not going to let anyone hurt you.” 

Quinn shudders again as she tries to rub some warmth into him, pull him closer. Make him feel safe while he rides out his nightmare. 

She’s vaguely aware of the audience. The guards, the nurse that was chasing her, other staff and patients. Not that she gives a shit. But she knows he will be embarrassed, upset. 

“I’ve got him,” she says, to the room in general. “We could use some space.” 

She’s sure it’s against protocol, that she isn’t supposed to be left alone with him. But then again they all seem perfectly happy to leave her to it, be rid of their problem. Which makes her think they’ve done this before, that he must be impossible to deal with. 

So the staff all go back to their stations, still looking back warily as if Quinn is a bomb that is about to go off. But she knows the flashback is over, that he just needs time and space to unclench from the acute anxiety, panic.

It takes a long while, a lot longer than she remembers. He even feels more ragged in her arms, skinnier, more tense. But eventually he calms, stops shaking so violently. Curls into himself, eyes shut tight.

She’s not sure if he’s even recognized that she’s there, if he’s at all aware of what’s happened outside his flashback. Wonders if he will be upset that she’s there, if she’ll be able to contain his explosive anger once he’s figured it out.

He’s still shuddering slightly, breathing raggedly. And all she can do is sit there with him, try to make him feel safe. While all the while she’s thinking how much she’s missed him, how much it will hurt if he really wants nothing to do with her. 

“So, you found me. Congratulations,” he rasps, while she’s lost in worry, anxious thoughts. 

She hears so much in just those few words. Depression, disgust, anger, despair. But apparently it’s his line for her now, to tell her that he remembers, knows it’s her. 

“I’m always going to find you,” she says, softly. Hopes it reassures him, to know she’s not going to let him go. 

Quinn doesn’t respond but she knows he’s embarrassed, agitated. So she doesn’t say anything more, lets him take things at his own pace. And eventually he grunts, pushes away from her. Sits up against the wall, tries to avoid her eyes. 

She can see him thinking, feeling. His features grow sharper, his eyes darken. It’s no wonder he’s in the psych ward, he looks completely overwhelmed, mentally destroyed. 

No words pass between them for a long time. He glares at her twice, then looks away sharply as soon as he makes eye contact. And she just waits, knows he needs time to settle before she confronts him. 

Eventually the other patients filter back into the common area and Carrie can feel them all checking her out, eyeing the situation. She wonders about Quinn’s reputation, notices that everyone gives them a wide berth but continues to stare. 

A few of the ex-soldiers make fitful catcalls, comments about his new personal nurse. Ask him the cost of her TLC, if they can hire her out for overnight care. And she can sense him tense up, get ready to spring. 

There is a desperate violence in him, a new level of agitation. She can feel it just being near him and it breaks her heart all over again. He is angry, frustrated, scared. All the things he was before, just amplified, enlarged. 

“Quinn, no,” she says, putting her hands on his shoulders. “Ignore them. I need to talk to you. Let’s go somewhere quiet.” 

She watches him struggle to contain his emotions, go from a shaking rage to barely controlled anger. Feels it through his shoulders as she holds him there, tries to make eye contact. 

Quinn doesn’t look at her but he doesn’t move either. Just sits and breathes agitatedly as she wonders how to get him back to his room without a scene. 

Carrie decides that the direct route is best, a test to see if she still has any power here. Because it’s entirely possible that he really wanted to disappear, that he’s too far gone now to reach. 

The possibility freezes her heart for a moment, looking at him falling apart before her eyes. Things have clearly gone downhill from Landstuhl, and she worries that she’s too late, that she fucked it up with him yet again. 

“Come with me,” she says, reaching for his hand. 

She’s surprised he lets her take it without a struggle, gets up obediently when she tugs on it. But apparently not as surprised as the rest of the onlookers who all keep staring and commenting about the situation. 

“Shit, freakboy has a girl.” 

“Guess it just takes hot pussy to tame the beast.” 

“Yeah, until he goes psycho killer on her.” 

Carrie glares over at the peanut gallery, gets some satisfaction when gawkers look away and the comments stop. Then she pulls Quinn away from the common room, leads him towards the personal rooms. 

“Which one’s you?” she asks. 

Quinn walks her to his room silently and she notices he’s physically more agile, stronger than he was. There’s less of a stumble in his steps, the limp in his weaker leg less noticeable than before. 

But mentally he’s not really there. She can tell from the way he stares at the ground sullenly, folds into himself at every opportunity. And yet he is so tense he can barely contain himself, clearly ready to explode. 

This could be harder than she thought, Carrie realizes. He’s pretty far gone, damaged by his time in the psych ward. And the worst part is she knows exactly how bad things can get when you’re committed, when you’re all alone and out of control. 

She sits him down in his bed, stands and faces him. Quinn is still silent, refuses to look at her. 

Standoff. 

Carrie sighs, wonders what to do. She came to confront him but now she’s nervous. She doesn’t want him to say no, knows it will destroy her. And right now he doesn’t seem to be in the headspace to say yes to anything. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Quinn mutters, a long while later. 

It’s exactly what her self-doubt has been telling her, that she’s just been lying to herself all along. About why he keeps running away, that it’s misguided self-denial, and not deep-seated anger. 

“Don’t fucking tell me what I should do,” she replies, more irritably than she intends. 

“Well I don’t need your pity, your guilt, Carrie. It’s pretty fucking obvious that I can’t even deal with my own shit,” he spits out, finally looking up at her. 

The eye contact between them is electric, like always. A back and forth of strong wills, heightened emotions. 

That’s why I’m here, she thinks. To help you through. 

But she knows he will just stubbornly refuse to accept any help, push her away to satisfy his self-denial. Unless he’s forced to take it, backed into a corner. 

And even then there’s a good chance that he’ll turn tail and run. Refuse to be loved, too terrified to try. 

That’s why she’s so nervous all of a sudden. Even though it’s her play. 

But it’s why she came here, made all the preparations. So Carrie bites down hard on her anxiety. Makes herself say the words. 

“Okay. Fine. But I’ve found a place in Brooklyn, a school for Frannie. I’m signing the papers today unless you tell me not to. You keep saying you want me to leave and I just keep refusing to believe it. But maybe I’m just fucking delusional, lying to myself. So this is it, Quinn. Your chance to tell me to go. Tell me you don’t want me to care, to fucking love you anymore and you’ll never see me again. You just have to say it.”

She’s on the verge of angry tears, just manages to hold them in. Doesn’t want to influence him in any way, just wants the fucking truth for once.

Quinn’s staring at her, wearing an inscrutable expression. And Carrie bites her lip hard, tries to control the onrushing anxiety. Wonders yet again if she’s been reading him wrong this whole time; if he’s going to tear down her carefully constructed plan without any regrets. 

Make her leave for good, punch a permanent hole in her heart.


	13. ch5partii

It’s all a blur.

One minute he’s in that deserted building, in the gas chamber again. But this time Quinn has a knife, tries to threaten his way out. 

And then they’re all over him, on top of him pinning him down. He knows the gas is coming and he struggles against them with all his power. But he has nothing against the strength of their bodies, pushing him to the ground. And he knows that this is it, the end yet again. The gas is fucking coming and he has no means of escape. 

He knows he’s moaning, that the pathetic noise he hears is coming from him. But he can’t help it; is terrified, lost between realities. 

Then all of sudden something changes, one set of arms lets go and he feels a bit of relief, a little air in his lungs. 

But the gas is still about to come, and he’s unable to get up, do anything but struggle and groan. The arms holding his legs are still there, and then there’s someone else holding his shoulders too. All the while he moans, tries to get free. But he knows he will fail, that he can never escape the inevitable pain.

He’s all tension, entirely made of anxiety, fear. Of what’s to happen, what happens everyday. 

But then. There’s something different. The debilitating terror doesn’t push onwards, even starts to pull back. He still has a splitting tension headache, his entire body still drenched in agony. And yet the flashback ebbs, his breath comes back to him.

The arms holding his legs down are suddenly gone as well. And that’s when he first notices the feeling on his back. In that spot that only she knows. 

Even in his agitated state he recognizes immediately what it means. But he can’t open his eyes to face her yet, not while he’s so wrapped up in his personal nightmare, a shaking mess in her arms. 

So Quinn just huddles against her, lets her warm him up while he pulls himself in tight. He’s still shuddering but she tugs him in closer, holds him protectively. And eventually he settles, his body no longer in full flight mode, his breathing back to normal. 

But as soon as he calms, the reality of the situation hits him and he feels his anxiety start to rise again. Carrie’s here. She found him in the psych ward, on the floor, completely in pieces. 

He’s not sure how to deflect that, pretend this isn’t happening to him. That he isn’t a total mess, unable to get through the days without a dozen pills and at least one breakdown. That things haven’t been terrible without her, and yet he’s never regretted his decision to leave her behind. 

It’s better this way, he tells himself endlessly. No one to watch him disintegrate. No one to stop him from falling all the way to the bottom of the well. So much easier.

He can’t put her through it. How bad it is, what he’s become. It’s the only sacrifice he can make now. The last thing he can give her. 

“So, you found me. Congratulations,” he rasps, goes back to the standard line. There’s even a parallel in situations, he thinks. Unable to contain his emotions. A ticking time bomb. 

“I’m always going to find you,” she says, softly. 

For a long time he wouldn’t have believed it. But now he knows it’s true. She found him in Islamabad, when he was pretty far gone. And in Berlin, when he was basically done. 

And now. When he’d given up any hope, was just debating on the end. 

So like Carrie. To show up out of nowhere, fuck everything up. 

He doesn’t know what to say, knows he will fuck this up in every way if he tries to talk to her now. The intensity of both wanting to hide forever and the desire to be found by her battling inside him as always. 

So he doesn’t say anything, pushes away from her and sits up against the wall. He can’t think when her hands are all over him, when she’s making him feel safer than he has in ages. 

He should be angry, his best attempt to set them both free foiled by her tenacity. And he is, just not entirely. 

He doesn’t want to be like this, absolutely does not want her to see him like this. So fucking out of control, pathetic. 

But he has been very alone since the move to New York. 

Of course he’s always been alone, it was the nature of his existence. But he’s never been this broken, unable to cope. Fucking tense, hopeless - all the time. He just wants it to stop. 

Only one way out. Or so he keeps thinking. 

But now Carrie’s here, and it’s blatantly obvious that he’s been lying to himself.

She makes him feel safe. He’s tried so hard to forget that. But even now, when he’s as lost as ever. He knows she won’t let anyone hurt him, that she will destroy anyone that tries. In full Carrie-rampage style. 

He glares at her with this thought, unsure why he’s so angry with her. But as soon as he meets her eyes he glances away, still unable to process all the things he’s feeling. 

He does this for a long time. Looks at her, then looks away. The push and pull. As it always was for them. And he’s surprised how patient Carrie is, that she doesn’t push him to talk. Considerate, thoughtful Carrie is a new creature to him, harder to fight with.

He doesn’t even notice that other patients have come back into the common area until he hears the whistles, some comments about his hot nurse, hiring her out. And of course he immediately becomes agitated again, ready to attack. 

He has a hard enough time being the quiet guy with explosive tendencies. Has not made many friends with his elusive attitude, wise-ass wit. 

And it doesn’t help that he’s always on edge, that many of the other patients are too. Anger, frustration, fear; all right at the surface.

He is about to pull to his feet, satisfy the urge to hit someone when he feels her hands on his shoulders, pressing him back firmly but gently.

“Quinn, no,” Carrie says. “Ignore them. I need to talk to you. Let’s go somewhere quiet.” 

For a moment he is still all rage, is about to push through her grip and release his anger. But again her touch makes him pull back just a little bit. Gives him a moment to breathe, not react. 

He wants to crush the guy. No one talks about Carrie like that. But he will just end up in secure lockdown for at least twenty four hours and he hates the fucking padded room. And she will watch it happen, see him get taken down by security twice in one day. Maybe see him carted off, restrained and pumped full of sedatives. 

He still wants to crush the guy. But maybe he shouldn’t. 

Carrie is still holding him by the shoulders, trying to look into his eyes. Quinn doesn’t look at her but he doesn’t move either. Just sits and breathes agitatedly, trying to tamp down his anger.

“Come with me,” she says, reaching for his hand. 

He lets her take it without a struggle, even stands at her request. He learned long ago that it’s easier not to fight with her, that she almost always gets her way anyhow. And right now he’s having a hard time thinking for himself, knows that she is doing her best to help him.

Of course he hears the comments as he gets up, just the regular bullshit from the others guys. 

“Shit, freakboy has a girl.” 

“Guess it just takes hot pussy to tame the beast.” 

“Yeah, until he goes psycho killer on her.” 

But they stop fairly shortly, probably due to a death look from Carrie. And Carrie is still pulling him away from the assholes so he doesn’t let it blow, struggles to contain his fury. 

“Which one’s you?” she asks. 

Quinn clenches his jaw, tells himself he’d rather hold onto some dignity and talk with Carrie in his room instead of attacking the others, getting bruised up and thrown in solitary. It’s a hard sell, especially because he’s unsure why she’s here, if she’s going to be upset he took off on her yet again. 

Still, he lets her walk him to his room, sit him down on the bed. He’s silent, still clenched up from the encounter in the common room, thinking about it all. Flying from embarrassment to disgust to anger and then back again. 

He is a fucking mess and he knows it. And more than ever, he doesn’t want her to see it, know how bad it’s gotten. 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Quinn mutters, a long while later. 

“Don’t fucking tell me what I should do,” she replies irritably. 

Classic Carrie. No one tells her what to do. So fucking infuriating, even at the best of times. Forcing this shit on him, the intensity of her concern. When he can’t handle anything anymore.

“Well I don’t need your pity, your guilt, Carrie. It’s pretty fucking obvious that I can’t even deal with my own shit,” he spits out, finally looking up at her. 

The eye contact between them is intense, fierce. But then Carrie suddenly glances away. And when she looks back there’s something different there. 

She looks nervous but determined. As if she’s readying herself for something.

And suddenly he’s all anxiety too, unsure of what’s she about to say, do. Maybe this is really it, he thinks. Maybe seeing him like this finally got it through to her. That it’s all gone to shit and she should just leave him to continue fucking things up for himself. Maybe she finally got tired of being unappreciated, fodder for his anger. 

She had to have spent a lot of time and resources finding him. He wonders if she regrets even bothering.

But then Carrie exhales loudly, and her next words are not at all what he expects.

“Okay. Fine. But I’ve found a place in Brooklyn, a school for Frannie. I’m signing the papers today unless you tell me not to. You keep saying you want me to leave and I just keep refusing to believe it. But maybe I’m just fucking delusional, lying to myself. So this is it, Quinn. Your chance to tell me to go. Tell me you don’t want me to care, to fucking love you anymore and you’ll never see me again. You just have to say it.”

She stumbles a bit on the last words and he can tell she’s on the verge of tears. But she holds them back as he stares at her, dumbfounded. 

He feels blindsided, his mind completely blank for a moment. 

And then he thinks ‘oh right, she’s really fucking good at this shit.’ 

He’d almost forgotten that about her, what drew him to her in the first place. Her rawness, her devotion. Her refusal to quit despite what’s good for her. 

He thinks how hard it’s been to keep her at bay, how much he struggles to insist that he doesn’t need her. 

So this is how it ends, he thinks. One way or another. 

Minutes pass. He’s stuck in wonderment, totally frozen in his predicament. Bare snippets of thought cross his mind, carried on intense flares of emotion. 

He is scared as fuck, angry too. And still he’s completely stunned, can’t think.

“So am I leaving?” Carrie asks, in a tone somewhere between anger and resignation. 

It’s the moment of truth. Again. 

Quinn hunkers down, tries hard to process his thoughts.

Last time he chose poorly, ran from her to save her, avoid their mutual fear. And yet, it’s still what he’s most drawn to. To run, to hide. Conquer his emotions, never admit to need. 

And now he feels the intensity of the moment, agitation in his every cell. The fear of losing her for good playing against the fear of being cared for, mattering to her. It’s too much, an overwhelming rush of emotion overtaking his damaged brain. Not exactly the usual flashback, panic attack. But similar - just as tense, equally uncontrollable.

He feels the pop in his head, the release of pure panic. It happens so often now, is what landed him in the psych ward when he got there. Without Carrie around he had nothing left to fixate on, no one to calm him down. He hadn’t even really realized what she did for him, how much he had needed it. But once he got to New York he had instantly started destabilizing, deteriorating mentally. He’d have PTSD flashbacks over and over, be unable to calm down for hours. Tackled by security, locked off in the padded room so he couldn’t hurt himself or anyone else. But then he’d just panic more from being locked in, would spend hours, days, frozen in fear, cradled to himself alone in a padded room. 

She’s already seen it once that day, he is not going to lose it in front of her again. Especially because he knows he can be violent when it happens, that he could accidentally hurt her if he starts to blind rage. 

He’s still got control but he’s not sure for how long. Can feel it slipping, the panic seeping through. 

Of course Carrie notices right away, her expression softening in an instant. She reaches her hand out to touch him but he flinches, pulls away. So she doesn’t try again, backs off warily. He’s yelled at her for that, smacked her even. For helping, for everything. 

He doesn’t want to fucking need her. And yet when he panics he still looks for her first, then has to remember that he cut the cord, that he’s on his own. 

The constant need, pitted up against self-denial. It’s enough to rip him apart, even when she’s not there, forcing him into a life-altering decision. 

Even the sympathy in her eyes, the love he sees. It just makes him feel like shit for making her suffer, for putting her in this position. There is no way she will ever convince him that he’s worth the effort. 

And still. She looks so concerned, desperate. It’s almost enough to make him lash out, tell her to leave. 

Except he remembers that this is it, that she’s not coming back if he makes her go. And it’s just enough to prevent him from making a rash decision, push her away due to fear and shame. 

Carrie’s still looking at him, her expression somewhere between concern and irritation. And his mind is still whirling with what she told him, the implications of his choice.

“You found a place here?” he asks, barely a mumble. It’s more than he ever considered. That she would try this hard, use that interminable Carrie effort on him. That it would make him feel so fucking conflicted. Between the need to suffer, the slimmest hope for comfort. 

Carrie nods, sighs. 

“So am I signing the papers?” 

He thinks about it hard, about what she said. Tries to breathe slowly through the terror, the fear of fucking this up. 

And the thing is, he doesn’t want her to love him. Because he can’t love himself, has never been able to. 

Still. He had loved her. Really fucking loved her, beyond what he thought himself capable of. And the real fucker is that he still does. But all this disability, depression, PTSD won’t let him admit it, act on it. It just keeps him in denial, unable to accept anything except self-hate, disgust. 

So it’s come to this. Carrie about to angry cry because she thinks he’s about to tell her fuck off forever. And the masochist in him wants to so badly, wants to ignore how he feels when she’s there, scowling at him, pissing him off endlessly. 

He knew she would find him eventually. But he didn’t see the ultimatum coming. 

He’s silent for so long Carrie turns to look at the door. She seems to think she’s not going to get an answer, that he’s not man enough to come up with a response. 

Quinn thinks how he’ll feel if she leaves right now, accepts his unsaid ‘no’, never returns. Takes a breath, blows it out anxiously. 

And then he asks himself what he really wants, underneath all the fear, self-hate. 

It’s hard to get under there, even be truthful with himself. He’s out of practice, has been doing everything to shut down his emotions. 

But he looks at her now, sees how upset and anxious she is. 

And of course the answer is the same it’s been for years now. He wants her. Wants to love and be loved. He doesn’t know how to do either, especially not now. That’s the fear, what holds him back every time. 

Carrie takes a step, reaches to open the door. 

Quinn stands, catches her hand before she gets the door fully open. Pushes it shut, as hard as he can. Stands facing her, barely a foot apart. Her hand still lightly held in his. 

He’s completely frozen for a long moment, stares at her intently. Runs his thumb over her knuckles, nervous as fuck. 

Carrie looks at him expectantly, just a hint of irritation in her expression, some nervous anxiety too.

It’s a million times harder than being on the ground in Syria, maybe harder than waiting for the gas. Because he hadn’t been afraid of death, had almost welcomed it at times. But he’s really fucking afraid of life, of what she stirs in him. 

He can tell she’s almost done waiting on him, that she’s preparing herself for rejection. Sees the tears she’s about to shed, the quiver in her shoulders. 

The thing is, he can’t do it for himself yet - admit his need to be loved. But he can do it for her. Because, fuck. He’d do anything for her. 

Even live. Maybe even heal. 

“Stay,” he says. 

“I fucking love you, Carrie.” 

That last part slips out, barely a mutter. A slip of the brain, a verbal tic. And he instantly tenses up, regrets it, wants to take back the words.

Yet when she smiles at him, the tears flickering in her lashes, Quinn realizes that for the first time in a long time, he’s not lying to either of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy s6 day! this is the end of this one... or is it?


End file.
